


This Is My Hand

by IrreWilderer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull-friendly, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Paranoia, Slow Burn, and lavellan is oblivious, mature language, solas has a crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrreWilderer/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan wakes-up one morning to find an ominous note written by her own hand. Warning of the world's destruction, the letter leads to another, and another. When combined, these clues promise to reveal the person responsible for this potential ruin: the previous owner of Corypheus's orb. But why does Solas seem to have all the answers? And why can the Inquisitor not remember putting pen to parchment? After drinking from the Well of Sorrows, Vinya believes its whispers may be more than simple memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The letter, still unopened, was waiting atop the oak writing desk.

Such a curious thing, this communication: found on the starkest white parchment and hidden among her toiletries. Antivan face-creams in jewelled containers, Orlesian scents in long-necked bottles, and yet among the lot it was a letter that was most foreign to the Dalish woman. While braiding her hair to a singular waist-length rope, while washing her face and taking the tray from the serving boy coming from the kitchens, the Inquisitor wondered endlessly. And when Vinya finally sat down to her breakfast –oatmeal topped with fruit and lavender– she took as much time in opening the envelope as she took in devouring her meal.

The elf laughed. She wasn’t sure why. Sipping some tea, her eyes skimmed again over the opening lines. Recognizing something in the slant but nothing in the content, her humour simmered away while heartburn began to stir. Slow and caustic, and so sharp in her throat, Vinya considered it as she studied the message.

_The penmanship will be familiar, for it is yours. The words will be foreign, because they are not._

_Don't be suspicious. This isn't a trick. At least, it’s not one being played on you. Corypheus is the enemy, be sure of that, but his hand will not be the one that ends the world._

_The person who owned the orb before Corypheus: that is who we must stop._

The writing was messy; uneven on the page. There were spots where the author had attempted to straighten lazing, slanting sentences. Spaces between each line were excessive, in anticipation of striking something out to replace it. And the words: half of them were joined in a nearly undecipherable gibberish, as she who had put pen to parchment scribbled chaotic in her haste.

'She' was her. Vinya had no doubt that this was her own writing. The script was hers, the 'i's that hadn’t been dotted were hers; as was the uneven ink. And now the heartburn which had turned to nausea was hers. Feeling light-headed, holding still her forgotten teacup, Vinya read on over the roar of blood rushing in her ears.

_As sure as you can trust that this is your writing, trust its words. These are your words. And it is your warning to yourself. Tell no one of what you learn, or what you are doing. Tell no one of your struggle to discover what this all means. Mention **nothing** or you may alert who we must fight against. There are spies in the Skyhold. They are watching. And if they warn their master, all is lost._

_It is important that you follow these instructions. You are clever enough that you will come to understand. At least, I hope we are._

How could she have forgotten penning this? When had she done it? After drinking with the boys? Following mead with Blackwall and Iron Bull at the tavern, it was usually an issue of… Actually, Vinya wasn’t really sure what happened after that. She knew very well that as much as her head ached the next morning, it was usually her toes that bore the brunt of too much beer. Apparently she couldn’t help but stub every toe on every stone step in Skyhold, no matter that someone usually carried her to bed. Whatever it was, though; whatever came after the ale but before unconsciousness, holding a quill wasn’t in the cards. Holding her head over a bucket? Much more likely.

The letter was feasibly part of a prank. Sera and Vinya, snug in the city-elf’s cobbled-together palace of ritzy, second-hand clutter, could have conspired on something. With elfroot to impair judgement, and maybe something stronger to haze the memory, the girls could have giggled themselves silly over turning the Inquisitor into a paranoid, freaked-out mess for a few hours. But there were no phallic symbols smeared across the heading, and Corypheus was mentioned twice, not once with his name misspelled.

The scattered leaves of her thoughts blustered about before the storm’s winds kicked up. There was something so much worse than these two possibilities, and that was Vinya’s urge to nod along knowingly as she read. _Yes_ , she believed these words. _Creators, how could she?_  And then there was panic, as the whispers always present now came to the forefront of her mind.

Had the well from the Temple of Mythal…? Was there something possessing…? What was happening to…?

Teacup clattering onto the desk, the elf glanced at her left palm. Only a glance, though – she didn’t look directly. Eye-contact with her own hand seemed too dangerous, for the moment. Vinya finished the letter while blinking far too much.

_This matter is delicate. Please understand my caution. And have faith that I’ve the Inquisition’s best interests at heart. I would not have done what I did to us without great cause._

_Ask Solas of his time in the Fade. Ask him of the memories he saw there. Don't let him become curious – his words are merely a part of the puzzle. And when he speaks of secret stories wrapped up in a tower, you will know where to find the next clue. And you will know who the orb once belonged to._

There were footsteps scraping on the stairs.

“Inquisitor?”

Adrenaline ached in her arms and shoulders; turned her wrists to a shaking wreck. Vinya threw the note in the desk, heart beating hard enough that it seemed to echo off furniture.

Josephine greeted her cordially. There was talk of the day’s itinerary, which consisted of a follow-up with Leliana over some action in the west, as well as an up-date from Cullen on the troops returning from the Arbor Wilds. There were red templars still scattered amongst the lush foliage of the region, as the Dales lay ravaged by the last battle with Corypheus’s men at the Temple of Mythal. From the looks of the losses, however, the Inquisition’s enemy had much regrouping to do, and an end to the war seemed nearly in sight.

Vinya didn’t hear it. Josephine’s discussion concerning repercussions in Orlais over Blackwall’s pardon – or Rainier, now – also merited a distracted nod but little else.

It wasn’t the note burning through the desk but the Inquisitor’s own hand that had Vinya sweating. Not for the first time did she wonder at the possibility that it was possessed. By the Fade; by the sinister means of the Anchor’s creation: how was she to know? She wasn’t a mage! Did the message pressed too hard in the parchment come from a demon? Could she even trust it?

“Inquisitor?”

“Hm?” Vinya felt that sensation of all eyes resting on her. Suddenly, the ceiling, books, bed and stone walls all had a gaze, and it settled heavy on her. “I’m sorry, Josephine. My mind is somewhere else. You know how I get after breakfast.”

The woman nodded graciously with a little laugh. “Digesting and distracted. I know, my lady. But, too, you look… pale. Tired. Are the words from the Well still keeping you from your rest?”

Vinya shrugged. “I’ll go see Dorian or Morrigan later. After I meet with Cullen. Don’t worry.”

“Do not discount Solas,” the Ambassador suggested pragmatically before taking her leave. “I daresay he may know more than Dorian, and Lady Morrigan remains bitter over certain events. Something to consider, your worship. Good day.”

Her tea had chilled. Swallowing the last mouthful, Vinya wondered how similarly cold and unpleasant her reception with the apostate would be. The elf hadn’t been happy with her choice over the Well, and Vinya had cut the discussion short before Solas railed for very long. It had been the last words they’d exchanged, some three nights ago.

Their relationship was little more than courteous greetings, Solas sought when questions about the Rifts arose, or situations of Vinya feeling guilty over her Dalish blood. Solas had shown them Skyhold, and the Inquisitor certainly didn’t hate him as Sera did. There had just never seemed to be a common ground to meet upon, and so their conversations were usually short and brusque.

Once, perhaps, in Haven, there might have been a moment; a spark of understanding. Vinya had pledged an innocent promise to help him make friends, though she’d never made good on it. And then the promise had gotten buried along with the rest of the buildings under snow and ice and cold.

The fact that the ominous note requested she seek him out only bolstered Vinya’s hesitance. As she pictured the uncomfortable conversation with Solas –her back painfully straight while sitting across from him; his eyes small, shrewd and searching– the Inquisitor considered how much authority these words were even owed. Should she be looking everywhere for spies, now? Under the bed, or behind her shoulder? Leliana had never once voiced concerns of secret agents in Skyhold, though perhaps that was something to fear rather than find hope in.

Striding across the floor, Vinya sighed. Counting every step, Vinya speculated. If the letter could lead to whoever had claimed the orb before Corypheus, then the Inquisitor couldn’t really ignore it. And if the warning of spies was true, she was now very alone.

“Ah, and here she is: smirking, strutting, with a bounce in her step. Must have just had breakfast. Where’s mine?”

Skirting through the curiously empty rotunda, Vinya had climbed to the library. An even bigger surprise was sitting in his comfortable, plush chair of red velvet, which, although emblazoned with the crest of the Inquisition, might as well have been wrought to Tevinter’s foreign fashion for how everyone else avoided it. Fighting Dorian Pavus for his favorite seat was something no one had the energy to do.

“Didn’t think you’d be up yet,” Vinya shrugged as she leaned against the baluster which over-looked the first floor. “Otherwise of course I’d have brought you some eggs. With that disgusting sauce you like.”

“Not awake yet?” Dorian tilted his head a little, crooked his brow a bit; feigned some soft offense. “You aren’t going to say something about my beauty sleep, are you?”

“No,” Vinya smirked. “I know you’ve been staying up late this last week, working on that project.”

“The Liberalum, yes. In fact, it’s borne fruit. And a basket to put it in.” Dorian stood up, motioned to his chair as an offering, and then came to stand before the Inquisitor when she declined. “I do so love using fruit metaphors to describe my homeland. It presents many opportunities for some very colourful commentary.”

“Rotting from the inside? There’s a worm within?”

Dorian frowned, a little of his bluster gone. “I was going to say something about rubbing it to shine on my sleeve.”

“You don’t have a sleeve.”

The frown deepened to concern. “Still suffering headaches?”

Vinya sighed and shrugged. There wasn’t a soul around except them, but all she could see were those words on the page. _There are spies in Skyhold. They are watching._

“Do you think my hand could be possessed? Because of the Mark, I mean.”

It would have been easier had Dorian laughed. It was what the elf expected, and how she yearned for something simple and familiar. Instead the man looked thoughtful, although that wasn’t surprising, either. “In theory. The Anchor’s ties to the Fade could facilitate something akin to possession. You can draw things in by tearing the Veil; close the Rifts. That light it emits?  To me, that suggests a continuous open means of accessing the Fade, not something you merely bend to your will. Perhaps it’s a two-way street.”

The Inquisitor went to rub her hand over her face, and then jerked away when she realized she’d gone to do so with the palm which was apparently playing house with a host of demons.

“Why do you ask?” Dorian asked. That intrigued, wistful tone that took him whenever theorizing on magic had sobered. “Not to sound curt, but you never care for magical discussion. Theory or otherwise.”

Vinya looked passed him, through the window to the sky. “You know those dumb questions that come to you in the middle of the night?  The ones you can’t get out of your head?” _This isn’t one of those_. “It’s one of those.”

“Something tells me ‘in the middle of the night’ means ‘in the middle of the night with Bull, Blackwall and a keg of mead’.”

She gave him the quiet laugh he was looking for. “Do I look hung-over?”

Dorian shrugged with his eyes. “Perhaps you’re wearing it well. There’s a first time for everything, Inquisitor. After all, you are, to my knowledge, asking for the first time about the Mark upon your hand which shits demons _and_ is related to ancient elvhen magic. At this point I thought you weren’t curious as a matter of principle.”

“I don’t dislike magic,” Vinya countered, trying to keep things light. It seemed the man would never forgive her for employing the templars rather than mages so many months ago. Dorian was very dear to her, as she was to him, but so much of his identity – summoning fire, commanding the dead – was something beyond her comprehension. “I just don’t like the scary magisters who use it to turn people into toads.”

Dorian laughed affectionately. “You’re starting to sound like Bull.”

“He’s smarter than that!” Vinya snorted. “…Isn’t he?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” the Tevinter native sighed wistfully.

After a few moments had passed, someone scuffled up the steps. The elven book-keeper, who no one seemed to know the name of, started his duties of collecting and cataloguing. As Dorian’s tender morning thoughts turned from the wonderful lummox he called lover, he looked at Vinya with a bit of concern. “You know who you ought to be asking these questions.”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “He wasn’t awake. Hence why I came up here. And to bask in your company, of course.”

“He’s awake now.” The man nodded passed her and down into the rotunda. “Why don’t you go ask him? I’m dying to hear how horrified he is by the suggestion.”

Vinya still did not turn around. Her voice softened, as though the older elf might hear from the story below. “Well, then, how about you ask?”

Of course, Dorian didn’t miss a beat.

“Good morning, Solas!” The man’s jubilant, cordial and far too enthusiastic greeting caused the elfmaid to jump. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, Dorian,” came the answer amidst chair legs scraping back from their spot. “Thank you for asking. Yourself?”

“Oh, like a babe. But not one of those problem children who are up fussing half the night. So, not like myself, if my nurse is to be believed.”

Laughing silently, Vinya buried her face in her hands as she listened to the man’s attempts to butter the apostate up.

“Actually, the Inquisitor and I were just having a debate on the magical properties of the Anchor. And the implications of possession due to its relationship with the Fade.”

“Indeed?”

“No, not really.” Turning, Vinya leaned over the baluster. “Debate implies two opinions, which this did not have. Please ignore Dorian.”

Miffed by the Tevinter mage’s ridiculous assertion, or perhaps at their conversation being cut short, Solas sat down in silence and started skimming through the index of the volume on his desk.

“You’re no fun,” Dorian said.

The Inquisitor rolled her eyes. “Have I threatened to throw you out lately?”

“Not this week.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Vinya pushed off from the baluster and walked towards the stairs.

“Vin?” Dorian’s face was full of care when she turned back for a second. “If you are concerned, please talk to him. He won’t bite.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well“ —and no one could smile quite as supportively as Dorian— “with that old pelt he wears, one never knows.”

The candle light illuminating the orange and red pigments of the fresco threw the lower floor into an impression of glowing flame, as though the place was on fire. There was even the thick smell of smoke, as incense burned upon a copper plate sitting on the desk. But again, all Vinya could see, all she could hear, while making the last step and entering the rotunda, were those words.

_There are spies in the Skyhold._

_I would not have done what I did to us without great cause._

_The person who owned the orb before Corypheus: that is who we must stop._

Vinya took a deep breath.

_Ask Solas of his time in the Fade._

And she would.


	2. Chapter 2

Smoke curled from the end of an incense cone sitting on a copper plate. The wholesome smell enriched the rotunda, and added further depth to the walls’ complicated frescos. Licks of yellow were no longer simply that: they were now streaks of cadmium lemon imported on big ships from Antiva, along with crates of cinnabar. Something in the process of crushing the latter, of adding the liquids and mixing the paint, was seen like a vision as the Inquisitor came into the middle of the room.

She closed her eyes. She took a breath. Memories, like feelings of hope or dread, love company, and so as Vinya considered, her mind went somewhere else.

Oily, nutty; somewhat acrid: it was an odd aroma. Gathering walnuts on a spring morning was what the elf recalled through the clouding perfume. Going among the hedgerows, looking in the hills; all the children had their baskets of braided reeds as they went in search. And then they had run home to cups of warmed, sweet syrup-water, while the adults threw the nuts at the fire to honor Elgar’nan.

It was not a memory she would mention. Something so personal, something so innocent and Dalish, wouldn’t be appreciated by Solas, if this breach to his inner sanctum was welcomed at all. Solitude, silence: these were the personal affects of an apostate who bore on his breast a wolf-jaw like a loved reminder of being alone. And Vinya couldn’t imagine him even feigning kindness for a story of her people’s ceremony. So she said simply, “that’s an interesting smell,” and stood in front of his desk.

“Thank-you.” Solas, marking his spot in the book with his finger, looked up. “Although I appreciate the musk of centuries-old literature, the bouquet has become rather sour.”

Vinya quirked her brow. “And that’s why you have your face buried in it, I’m sure.”

The man measured this good-meaning jab and found something less than favorable in the length of her smirk. “Your hand is not possessed, Inquisitor. Possession can not be confined to a limb. If there was a spirit within you, I would know.”

Perching on the edge of his desk, Vinya folded her arms across her chest. The next time Dorian offered to help her by yelling through the rotunda, she was politely threatening him with jail-time. “Really? How would you know? Something about my eyes, maybe?”

“If you like,” Solas answered curtly. “Your eyes; your manner. The fact remains: you are no… abomination.”

That term: it lay on his tongue like lemons without sugar to belay the bitterness. Such an ugly connotation associated with demons was an insult to the man who spent so much time in the Fade doing whatever had so captured his fancy: talking with those creatures; partaking of unspeakable acts. Or, rather, in fact _very_ speakable acts, as such deeds were a favorite topic of discussion when Bull, Blackwall, Sera and herself were four pints into the homebrew. But whatever it was that _had_ caught his attention – flying around in the Fade or having hot sex with spirits – now took on darker implications.

_Ask Solas of his time in the Fade. Ask him of the memories he saw there._

Out of habit, Vinya balled a fist and felt over her own rough skin. Beneath the grip of a greatsword-wielder, under respectful callouses bought by one hundred battles, burned a light that was green, and hot, and it was responsible for a promise of evil not spoken, not sworn, but written.

Even if Solas was correct, and the Fade had no claim to the animation of her fingers, her hand had still penned that letter. A letter which swore Skyhold was brimming with spies working for some unknown evil. A letter which had instructed she seek out the apostate, who would, in turn, unknowingly show her the way to this sinister, previous owner of the orb.

Vinya had no choice. She had no choice but to hear of Solas’s strange tales, as he traversed over the line into the Beyond and pretended it wasn’t blasphemy to play in the Dread Wolf’s hunting ground.

“Solas, wha— “

“Inquisitor, was there— “

They traded glances. Then Vinya looked down at her lap, laughing quietly. It felt good. The tightness in her chest had become the death-grip of thumbs pressing on the windpipe, but for a second she could breathe again as she and the other elf came to a silly collision in their brief conversation.

“If you would,” Solas offered.

“No. You.” Vinya made a little flourish of her hand. “My thing will warrant me finding a proper chair to actually sit in.”

The man bowed his head in appreciation.

“I was wondering as to the origin of your interest. And if you had considered —whatever your concerns— that the Well may be responsible”

“The…?” Vinya startled. These words were, after all, on-point with her own worries.

“You’ve lived with the Anchor for months, yet have asked very little. And it is the Well that has been the source of your recent discomfort, if Dorian’s gossip is to be believed.”

Vinya gaped. “Dorian is gossiping about me?”

It was a shock. The mage adored attention, _loved_ to hear himself talk, but never would he do so at the expense of friends. Sometimes Vinya theorized that Dorian wore his many buckles to keep his immense shroud of affectionate loyalty in check, so as not to trip over it.

And just like that, in the dark, sunless corner of her mind, there sprouted the seed of suspicion where before the soil had been ever bare. Vinya swallowed. Dorian could have nothing to do with the spies mentioned in the letter. _Nothing._

“That may have been out of turn,” Solas conceded. “Dorian approached me when you complained of pain initially. Seeking a solution, and advice.”

“Oh.” Vinya shrugged over her sigh of relief. “Well. It’s nice that he worries.”

Solas continued after a small nod of affirmation. “I will say only this: do not be surprised if the effects of the Well are long-lasting, troublesome, perhaps even painful. It is your burden to bear, Inquisitor. For better, or worse.”

Ah; what nonchalance from such pretty, plump lips. _For better or worse._ Maybe if she screamed about memory loss, the Well’s whispers, the owner of the orb and their spies, Solas could tell her which of the two these things were: better, or worse.

But screaming would get Vinya no where, and it was time to stop feeling afraid. She was not a child, she had not come so far without tact, and she was not without subtlety. She was the Inquisitor, after all: pacifier of the mage-templar conflict, banisher of the Grey Wardens, and savior of Empress Celene.

“Tell me about the Fade, Solas.”

By the utter surprise washing over the apostate’s face, perhaps ‘subtlety’ had been generous.

“What is it that has you so worried, Inquisitor?” Solas’s tone was complete courteous regard, though there was some silver skepticism around the cloud of his question. “Or do you not trust what I have said?”

“I trust, Solas, I trust,” Vinya assured him, shifting slightly on her uncomfortable perch. “And I’m interested.”

“For the first time in the months that I have known you?” Solas asked. “Following absurd questions concerning possession?”

His gaze was as strong and sure as a grip holding her to accountability. The woman merely smiled.

“The Inquisitor is broadening her horizons.”

“Well, then, what can I tell you?” After some hesitation, Solas spoke with sarcasm. “According to Chantry lore, the Fade is— “

Vinya made a dismissing gesture. “No, not that. Firstly, I do not want Chantry rhetoric. And secondly, I meant what you saw. The memories. You mentioned before seeing the battle of Ostagar. I’d like to hear more of that.”

“Ah. Then…” The man looked away. It was as though the sun came out from behind clouds and brightened his features. “I apologize for my manner, Inquisitor. As I said, you have shown little interest in Fade before. Perhaps worse than disinterest, you displayed ambivalence. An unknowing of your own point of view. An unwillingness to confront it. And rarely do people change their opinion so completely.”

Solas the apostate was intelligent. Never would Vinya have disputed that. Whatever had driven him to the wilds, where he could shun the companionship of people and indulge in his Fade-fascination, was obviously no simple thing. He’d spoken of battle with Blackwall, could keep up in a mental manifestation of chess with an ex-Ben-Hassrath agent, and had apparently given advice on subterfuge to Sera at some point. Solas was a mystery that the Inquisitor had never had time to figure out, but that did not mean he was any less complicated or confusing. And that certainly did not mean he was wrong, for he was right: people rarely did change so completely in their opinions. The Inquisitor certainly hadn’t.

Vinya would have loved to have nodded knowingly. She would have been happy to support his observation. _Finally! Something they could agree upon!_ But it wasn’t an option. She had her mysterious and questionable orders to complete. So she smiled as fake as the painted youth upon an Orlesian dowager’s face, and wiggled a little in her spot like she was readying to hear a fascinating tale. The enthusiastic bluster died from her sails when Solas finished with a rather earnest confession.

“I will admit; it is… refreshing to be proven wrong.”

“Well, I’m glad to be of service,” Vinya answered quietly. Clearing the rope of guilt coiled in her throat, she looked him straight in the eye. “Now, tell me about the old memories you found in the Fade.”

And he did.

He spoke of fingers tapping slightly against the worn wood-grain of a desk, while lips explained lyrical lives that couldn’t have been so poetic in reality. Solas talked of old eyes with soft wrinkles, which saw to depths unperceived by waking hearts. There was a report of a purity that had caught in the excited spark of those flashing, grey-morning orbs, and then Solas confessed of that gaze getting lost, then finding its self, as it searched for some recognition in her face.

He looked at her. Solas spoke in words that washed over the shore of his lips, and brought with them a tidal wave of images. Singing soldiers, the beat of their feet, but the story that Vinya heard was not of human hordes with their glorious harmonies. The moment she came to know was Solas’s passion for these single memories. As his chest rose and fell for the song he had heard in the Fade, Vinya knew only his happiness for such simplicity; such innocence. It wasn’t of soldiers at war, winning or loosing, which was arguably a more interesting instance. Instead, it was the swelling cadence of an aria that had so captured his devotion.

Vinya was surprised. Solas often spoke with a scholarly derision; asked questions in such a pitch that he seemed to be ferreting through the faults of others. But there he had sat, falling to silence, as he waited expectantly, and perhaps nervously, for her reaction.

“Inquisitor?”

The elfmaid jumped. “Hm?”

Leliana’s laugh was perhaps too knowing. “Distracted, are you?”

Vinya smiled in return. How cold the rookery was!

Ten —twenty?— minuets ago, the Spymaster of Skyhold had come down from her loft with all the shadowy grace of her black birds. One step, two steps; Solas’s brow had perked at the footfall. This roused Vinya’s attention, and then she was off, after a little farewell-wave of her hand. Out from the midst of the smell of incense; gone from such revelations as ‘maybe Solas wasn’t a complete grump’.

Despite the woman’s wishes to suss out the apostate’s “ _secret stories wrapped up in a tower”_ , there were still duties needing attention. And such visible, concrete issues were more pressing than cryptic clues tossed out like breadcrumbs. She was the Inquisitor, and she had her job. That was why, mentally, Vinya continued to balance atop Solas’s desk, completely distracted. And of course that was why Leliana was staring at her with the look of someone who had repeated themselves more than once.

“Distracted? No. I’m just ignoring you.” Smirking, Vinya eased back in the chair. “But yes, I agree: perhaps it is time we expand to the northern stretches of the Western Approach. Corypheus was obsessed with ruins before. And if we can find any of his auxiliary troops stationed around the oasis, it would be good to get rid of them.”

“I am glad you agree,” Leliana retorted. Her glass-like eyes of blue were hardly transparent as she sat across the humble desk of old, scratched redwood. “I will prepare to send more scouts, and Harding along with them, if you are to follow.”

Vinya considered. “I’m not sure. It would take a month to get there, and I don’t think I can spare the time to head the expedition myself.”

“The Commander thinks it wise.”

“The Commander would support any assault on Corypheus’s numbers. Especially when the bulk of our troops is still so far away.” The elf sighed. It was a tired, little sound. “I know Cullen would love taking out more red templars while sparing our soldiers. But I think the next stop for me is returning to the Arbor Wilds. The voices… the Well, that’s… It’s where they want me to go.”

Sister Nightingale nodded. “Yes, I know. Keeping that information from Morrigan has been a special treat.”

“You know?” Vinya asked, her mouth falling slightly.

“Of course!” smiled Leliana. “I’d like to say my little pets told me, but when the tower is quiet, I can hear all sorts of things from below. Including you questioning Dorian about elvhen magic. And Dorian seeking answers from Solas.”

“And here I thought to be Spymaster you had to do better than just have big ears,” laughed the Inquisitor.

“Many ears and many eyes, actually,” the Spymaster corrected. “Although sometimes, just two. It is very curious that you are going to Solas now about the Mark.”

Blood swirling and then receding across her cheeks, Vinya prayed she hadn’t paled, or blushed. There was no accusation in the woman’s observation, however. There was a coyness; a meddling lilt to her intonation. And something of a story riddled her accent, like this was a tale Leliana had heard and knew the ending to. But there was no accusation whatsoever.

“Not so curious,” Vinya pressed emphatically. “He _is_ the Fade expert. But it seems you heard wrong. I went to Dorian about that. Solas was explaining his Fade journeys. Why? What are you insinuating, Lady Nightingale?”

There was a shrug on her shoulders and a shrug in her voice. “Only that the Mark, or the Well, whatever it may be, must be causing you great distress. Josie mentioned you were distracted this morning, too.”

The elf breathed out through her nose.

“Maybe I’m a little desperate,” Vinya offered with a wave of her hand. Hiding the lie among truth was something she’d learned from the redhead opposite, after all. “When I haven’t slept, I’m cranky. And the Well is… well.”

Leliana consented. “Of course. It is only natural that you seek out all avenues of information. Even if you have never approached Solas before. Should I send scouts, then? To see if this _Solasan_ temple might be breached?”

Vinya wasn’t about to let the Bard’s sense of humour throw her. “If there are some in the Approach who are bored and looking for hazard pay, go ahead.” Sensing the end of their conversation, the Inquisitor moved to her feet. “But otherwise, don’t divert anyone.”

Leliana turned to her work upon realizing her curiosity would not be satisfied. “I’ll see it done. After our victory at the temple, Corypheus will be desperate for an advantage. There’s no telling what he may be doing to that ancient ruin.”

The Spymaster started scratching orders out immediately. Her quill swirled in an elegant calligraphy that could be heard, with curves cultivated by Orlesian tutors, and a grace bestowed by the Chantry. Leliana’s writing was prim; polished. It was the words themselves that remembered the Bard in her.

“Leliana…”

Bard, assassin, spymaster: and it was Vinya’s lot to seem both anxious and aloof in the face of someone so practiced in keeping secrets. Or seeing through them.

“Before I go, I must ask” –the Inquisitor cocked her brow questioningly— “Does Corypheus have spies? Here in the castle, specifically. Have you ever caught anyone you thought to be working for him? Especially lately, what with him scrambling like he must be?”

Although she may have been known for her nightingale namesake, the smile on Leliana’s lips was completely feline. “Oh, yes. A couple pretending to be refugees looking for work only last month. Most of the displaced here are happy just to have walls around them – it is the truly ambitious you must look out for. They were not very… forthcoming with any information, however.” She sat back comfortably, like this talk was no less casual than gossip over tea. “There have been others. Several months ago, there was even one agent _not_ in league with Corypheus. After our time in Halamshiral, I discovered an elfwoman most surely working for Briala, but she swallowed venom before I could question her. At the time, I didn’t see the need in informing you. You were in the Dales, you see. Meeting with Fairbanks. And it is my job to deal with such things.”

Perhaps it was that Vinya had asked the question at all. Maybe Leliana felt the need to reassure an Inquisitor suffering repercussions from a barely-understood source of magic. Either way, all lofty confidence in Leliana’s face was replaced by sincerity. “There’s no need to worry, Inquisitor. If I find something worthy of telling you, I will.”

Bowing, Vinya left. Down she went, step by step, hands trailing over the stone wall beside her. Curiously, the cold didn’t quite bite her left fingertips as it did her right.

Leliana’s confession did nothing for her anxiety. It simply reinforced the warning she had been considering ignoring, now that the elf was going about her usual work and starting to feel normal. Normal indeed: Vinya was planning out the steps of her afternoon as she descended the steps of the rotunda. She had Cullen to speak with now, Morrigan to consult with over what to expect upon returning to the Dales, and lunch after that, probably.

It was an easy thing to forget the unlikely when distracted; when consumed with duty and looking elsewhere. Things she understood, things that were plain and obvious: for a Dalish elf thrown into a position of power dependent on shemlen support, Vinya had always had time for little else. There’d always been a hundred things to learn, and at the end of the day she didn’t need to go to bed with her head buzzing with more questions.

_But what else had he seen? Maybe there was more – maybe he could explain where those soldiers had been going. Could he see moments from her childhood, if he wanted? Could he choose what he witnessed? Or did the memories simply wash over him, and how did he actually view these things? Omnisciently, or through the eyes of the observer?_

Solas was back to reading his book. Incense smoke was swirling. The cone was ashing down to nothing, long fingers were turning a page, and still, the elf had his secret stories wrapped up in that tower.

Tossing one last look over her shoulder, forgoing unwanted questions until later, Vinya went out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Skyhold’s kitchens were in a curious spot. To reach them, one could start in the throne room, and from there follow lengths of winding, cool corridors which went untouched by the great hearths’ heat. Through halls, up and down stairs, around the cellar, and there you were: in the midst of the castle’s busiest, most boisterous place. But the most straight-forward means of accessing the kitchens came from seeking them across the courtyard.

“Wot? Again? No way.”

Protected by the walls, the courtyard’s expanse of trodden ground was constantly bustling with the little village that had sprung up in the wake of flocking refugees and citizens. There was a market, but bartering happened outside the tavern, too. Or near the newly-furnished surgeons den. Anywhere, really. A cluster of tents was situated near the stables, and clouds from cooking-spits and fire pits plumed into the sky with the most delicious smells. Thick, stewing and salty: more than once the Inquisitor had favored eating among the people to her own kitchen’s fare. Blackwall ate here often – or, he had. Now that he was tentatively known as Thom Rainier, not so many invited him to table.

“That’s twice, now. _In two days_. That’s what I call a pattern.”

Which might have been well and good. The man could _eat_. Two months back, Blackwall had stated that someone getting up there in years needed to watch what he put on his plate, but evidentially that meant actually watching as two baked potatoes, toast, a third potato, vegetables, and a healthy portion of beef was piled up in a heap. This was what he received from the Skyhold chefs, of course. If Blackwall hadn’t been so polite about his portions with the refugees, he’d have eaten them out of stock in a fortnight.

“And patterns lead to predictable, boring boringness. But you’ve both got the ears and boney butts, so of course you’re gonna bump ‘em. That’s how it works, right?”

Him _and_ Bull. Iron Bull was worse. And it wasn’t because of his larger body mass, and that those bigger muscles required more fuel. It wasn’t how much he ate, but **what** he ate: meat. So much meat. Piles and piles upon scratched silver plates, which, naturally, he licked up suggestively while sharing stares with the tavern girls. Bull had curtailed it somewhat after becoming Tal-Vashoth: he’d worried so much about becoming a mindless animal that even his eating habits were affected. Possibly Dorian, but probably Krem, talked some sense into him eventually, and then he went back to being Bull: kindly, crazy, and eating as much as the Chargers combined. As much as Sera, even.

“I mean, why else would you spend two days – _two seconds_ – with that staff-up-arse, look-down-nose, screw-demons-sideways, all-round prick of a person?”

Sera. Sera with her whole chickens, four pies, and—

“Shoulda showed coin on it, really. Could of suckered Blackwall and Big Talker with that one. You and Baldie were always just one big, fat pocket waiting to get plucked. Or fuc— “

“Sera!”

The two elves had been walking across the courtyard: Vinya, carrying a tray from the kitchen towards Skyhold’s main entrance, and Sera, tagging along. Sera, who had come out of nowhere, was now laughing with a child’s triumph over a child’s observations, but with something not so juvenile in her gaze. Concern; worry: the blonde knew better than to believe ridiculous things – it was what her entire philosophy was built upon. Big, beautiful eyes were full of big, bad fear, and they kept flickering towards the Inquisitor’s hand.

“Struck a nerve, did I?” Sera’s voice deepened to that woman’s tone it took on at times. But within a second, it was sweet and silly once more. “Must be true, then!”

“You’re just jealous,” laughed Vinya suggestively. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs which led into the castle, she turned to her friend.

“Ha! Not likely,” Sera shot back. “You can go peddle that pish to Dorian, because I ain’t buying. I’m not into skinny girls.”

The Inquisitor cocked her eyebrow. “I don’t think Dorian is, either.”

“Yeah, but I meant—“ The other elf rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant. All that cake-talk going nowhere. Bet Solas likes his cake, huh?”

“Oh, for—“ Stopping herself, Vinya sighed. “It’s not actually bothering you, is it? That I’m having _lunch_ with him?”

For a moment, the younger elf looked so far away. Hers was a busy head: full of apprehension, worries of abandonment, fear for her friends, and all the courage in the world to kick the ass of anything imposing on those she cared about. But Sera, like Vinya, didn’t understand magic. Sera, unlike Vinya, despised it farther than the depths of her being. And so there she was, glancing once more at the Lady Herald’s hand.

“Sparkl—“ Apparently this was serious enough for her to forgo Varric’s nicknames. ” _Dorian_ says your touched bits are getting bad. Which of course they are: you soaked your arse in demon piss, or whatever was in that Well. That’s gotta make everything worse, right? So, I don’t know – take Solas his custard, be all elfy, hopefully he helps, but don’t forget your friends. Cuz Friends will remember you, Inquisitor. And you might get more than custard back.”

Vinya smiled. “Oh?”

“Oh yeah,” replied that shit-eating grin. “Like that time with the nugs?”

Shaking her head, the Inquisitor started up the stairs. “If I wake up to forty nugs in my room, or their crap, I’m coming for you, Buttercup.”

“Promises, promises. Hey, wait a sec!”

Bounding up to her step, Sera surveyed the tray of bowled out custards, fruit, tea, and wine. A second later, she was sticking her finger into the stiff, creamy pudding and licking it off. After eliciting a frown from her audience, she did the same with the second.

“Have a nice lunch, _Inquisitor_.”

Winking, Sera waved and started back towards the tavern. Vinya snorted a little giggle and continued up into the castle.

It _had_ been two days, as Sera had observed. Two afternoons of seeking Solas, plus the first morning after Vinya found the note. And whereas two days ago, added to the first, this might have caused her some unease at being so obvious, three days later – _now_ – she knew what to do. The Inquisitor had to convince those so attuned to her usual habits that something was wrong; that something was hurting her deep, and laying heavy on her mind. She needed a reason to be acting so questionable, and one that was far from the truth.

That thing was Solas.

According to opinions such as Sera’s, that Vinya suddenly found a need to be friendly towards the apostate could only mean one thing. It was ridiculous, but the blonde elf wasn’t alone. Cassandra kept asking, in that oh-so-serious tone of hers, how Solas was, and Varric had offered to write a love-ballad. The dwarf assured her it wouldn’t be very good, but also that Chuckles didn’t seem too romantic, anyways.

It was, perhaps, unfair to blame them. Vinya had had the same suspicious reaction to Dorian’s comments over his dear friend Felix, and she’d questioned Leliana’s close relationship with Divine Justinia, too. Perhaps it was a reflection of romantic hearts wishing well for her, or simply friendly derision. Either way, it did not make her feel any better about the lie.

To feign affection for the elf was such a base tactic that every step nearer Solas’s rotunda gave her muscle cramps. Even to suggest there was an inkling of interest was manipulative. There had always been respect for him, tucked up small between her confusion and wariness, and over these last two days, their time together had been pleasant. But the Inquisitor knew that she had a duty to more than just playing nice.

Vinya had to exhaust Solas’s stories of the Fade. That was what the note, all wrinkled and resting within her breast-band now, had instructed. Then, hopefully, her respect could be left at a quiet appreciation, and she would find out whoever it was that planned to destroy the world besides Corypheus. Guilty though she felt, the thought of this spurred her on. Hopefully even Solas could forgive offended feelings if that meant catching the orb’s creator.

Of course, if he didn’t, the pounding of Vinya’s heart as she drew nearer (which she chalked up to guilt) would be absolutely deserving.

Today, the rotunda was lively. Normally, there was a brazier burning with all the blue-green gloom of veilfire, but now it was bright and cheery as Solas stood off in the rotunda, eyeing the frescos. There wasn’t much space left on the wall for him to plaster and colour, and perhaps the elf was considering the final image as much as the final battle. There certainly seemed to be the feeling of an inevitable end drawing near.

“Hopefully you’ll get to paint a happy ending,” Vinya offered as she set the tray down on the desk which was surprisingly clear of the man’s academic clutter.

Turning, Solas’s face was much more animated than the stoic figures across the walls. Brow raised, eyes bright; he looked at the offering of food and smiled.

“One could say what is painted has proven to be a collection of happy endings. Or, perhaps, several happy beginnings along the path of progress. It is not merely the end-means, Inquisitor, but the journey that is worth remembering.”

“Oh?” Tilting her head curiously, Vinya sat in the spot across from his, in a chair she’d brought days ago. “You’ve always struck me as an end-means kind of guy. At the end of the day it’s what you’ve done, not your intentions, that matter: that sort of thing.”

This earned her a shrug.

“You have accomplished things that have shaped the landscape of this world, and they will be remembered long after, regardless of Corypheus’s fate.” Solas’s feet came confidently towards the desk as he took his place. “Your dismemberment of the templar order; your banishment of the Grey Wardens: new beginnings no less notable than the defeat of an ancient magister.”

“Those still sound like endings to me,” Vinya said while pulling her cup of tea into her lap. She grinned. “I suppose, if we were further into lunch, my chamomile would be half-empty, and your wine would be half-full.”

Solas chuckled. “And both our custards would still have fingerprints.”

“Oh! Yes. That was Sera. Being…” _Concerned, confused, worried and wonderful._ “Sera.”

“Then it could be worse,” conceded the man. His voice then swelled with appreciation. “I thank you for this, Inquisitor.”

Vinya stilled at the sound of such gratitude. She did not reach for the sliced pear; she did not move to hide her expression behind the steaming, fragrant tea. Instead, Vinya watched as Solas slowly picked up a spoon, wrapped long fingers about the bowl’s brim, and brought the custard close. Skimming the top, he collected the thick, sweet vanilla treat, and so specifically, too: around the edge of the ramekin, like this was part of a ritual that needed heeding. Taking it to his mouth quick and sudden, Solas’s tongue darted out after to lick across his lips.

He savored it. He sighed. Gathering more, Solas would hold the spoon in mouth for a second longer than needed, as every flavor was considered and commended. Then the elf looked up to his guest, as though to remind himself that she was still there, though there was no shame on his face, or feeling of awkwardness. Solas was simply enjoying having company.

The first time the man had done this had been in the middle of a Fade-story about a dwarf. Never before had the Stone Child seen the sun, and it was illustrated in such a way that the beams were felt cascading through clouds and playing on Vinya’s cheeks. Stopping abruptly, the apostate had looked at her searchingly, as she sat back with one leg up and over the chair-arm. The Inquisitor had been relaxed, yes, but completely intent on the story. Their eyes met like a handshake: firm, warm, and friendly. Solas started again after relishing the moment of comradery.

The apostate did not want to be alone, that was clear. And the Inquisitor had been so wrong about that.

“This doesn’t come free, of course,” Vinya finally said after putting a couple of grapes in her palm and sitting back. It was like a secret she wanted to share with Dorian, or Sera: Solas wasn’t the loner they’d thought. But this would likely only lead to more less-than-innocent insinuations, so the others could just stay in the dark. “And I think you know that.”

“I had my suspicions,” Solas admitted, hands lowering his lunch closer to his lap as his attention shifted to her.

“Then perhaps you should deliver.”

“Perhaps I should.”

It came in something darker than his commonly light, melodic lilt. There was a deepness to his voice, richness in the pronouncements, and Vinya was reminded of falling from high up and landing hard. Serious; sober: it was important to Solas, and he wanted it recognized in sincerity, not as some light-hearted fancy. But his efforts were in vain, for it was a scene meant to be heard in whispers sighed quiet at the ears.

There was a maid, Vinya could see, in a bodice embroidered with all of youth’s entanglements: tulips, sunshine, butterflies; in pink and yellow thread. Her skirt of violet caught the excitement of nervous legs, as she sat near a pond fed by sparkling streams. A boy approached slowly, with a thick, lush, healthy lily in his thin, clammy, gentle hands.

Together they sat. Together they grew. A whole village knew that pond, and its promises of pairing, but not the source of such luck. Their children with kind hearts, and children’s children with loving souls, came together as a match-making spirit coupled sweet boys and fair girls in unions of lasting love.

Such a village unchanging; such years measured in the fashions of decades, yet with the same happiness in young and old alike: that was what Solas should be painting. Dreamily, Vinya pictured it, and was then startled by the way the man was staring at her: as though she had been snoring.

“I suspected you were seeking the privacy of the rotunda for the sake of catching up on sleep.”

Shoulders shaking as she giggled silently, Vinya shook her head. “Not true. Absolutely not true. That was beautiful, Solas! Do dem— Do _spirits_ actually do things like that?”

“Do you doubt it?” Solas asked while watching her evenly. “You saw a spirit in the Fade claiming to be Divine Justinia. All that it wished was to guide you through. Then there’s Cole: compassion in the body of a boy. Envy might have taken you, had it not been for his unsought aid.”

Hefting both legs over the chair-arm, she laid side-ways and looked up, up, up. There seemed to be no ceiling as it blurred so far beyond the Inquisitor’s sight.

“I know that. I just…” Vinya sighed. “We’re raised to fear demons. In the clan. We’re raised to fear so much from the Fade. The Beyond is where the Wolf walks, and he gets you. I’m not a mage; possession wasn’t something I was ever too afraid of. But accidents happened. Kids started throwing fire around, and people got burned. Everything coming from the Beyond was just… best kept there. We weren’t taught demons could be helpful.”

“And the story of a spirit matching couples has convinced you?”

Her face lolled to the side, to catch the look of surprise which did not match the skeptic tone. “As you said, I’ve seen Cole work. I wish I would have been more trusting of the spirit that looked like the Divine. And there was your friend. I saw it before you… before she… It wasn’t supposed to be a pride demon.”

Pained by the memory, Solas tilted his head just enough to look away. “No, they were not.”

“Sorry.”

He smiled. Still looking away, preferring to keep that grief to himself, Solas smiled nonetheless at the little apology. “Do not be, Inquisitor. You helped more than most would have. I only wish you might have met my friend, and known them as I did.”

There was quiet now: contemplative; comfortable. Vinya felt like she could stretch all her limbs here, reach every wall, touch all the memories made into images and be no bigger than herself. Those things in the frescos weren’t her, and she didn’t mind. Lazing, languid; here she was Vin, and that was all, and it was nice.

Slow steps started coming down the stairs. Dorian? No doubt he’d caught a glimpse of her spread out as serenely as a stretching cat. But when Vinya craned her head to see the person walking along the wall and out the door, it wasn’t the mage. It was something… familiar, certainly; frightening, surely, considering what she and Solas had just been talking about.

Forcing herself up, Vinya followed the gliding woman out into the expanse of the throne room. The Inquisitor’s own gasps echoed off the far, bare walls, as there were no tapestries, no adornments, no _anything_ to the room. The throne, benches, people—

 _The people_. They were gone! Their fires, their meals, their faces and talk: gone. Stone floors, stone walls, stone ceiling, and the woman, but that was all.

The walking woman looked like Solas’s friend.

“Solas!?”

Light laughter in her ear had Vinya twisting around to see the elf standing there, hands behind his back as always, eyes careful as always: all of him as he ever was.

“Calm, Inquisitor,” Solas pressed kindly, managing his face into an easy expression as Vinya gasped for air. “We are in the Fade.”

“Andruil’s ass— of course we are!” Crossing her arms in the pretence of impatient, in her heart she knew it was an embrace of self-comfort. “You did this?”

“No!” Solas was surprised by the accusation. Or the venom in her voice. “I did no such thing.”

“Really? Then why her?”

Looking back, the image of the spirit-woman disappeared through the door leading to the Inquisitor’s room.

“I mentioned it, true: the wish that you might have met my friend. But the Fade is forming to your will alone. And that was not the spirit I knew.” The apostate couldn’t have sounded more thrilled. “It is intensely lucid. Incredibly life-like. I am impressed, Vinya.”

“I hate when this happens,” the Inquisitor grumbled in response.

Since gaining the Mark, the non-mage’s relationship with the Fade had changed beyond the ability to simply close Rifts. Dreaming accompanied this helpful power, but it was so jarring to look around and realize every bit of whim-shaped structure was false. There were pieces that didn’t quite fit, that were forced together, and splinters came in the image of an empty Skyhold she didn’t recognize. There were cracks; shadows that moved and showed through the lie, and that was where the Wolf would reach through, she knew.

“Do you dream so often now?” Solas asked in a flat tone. Her reaction annoyed the man so in love with the Fade.

“Yes. And usually I don’t realize until some time in.” Vinya huffed and looked away from it all, to focus entirely on the other elf. “You need to realize, Solas, that I didn’t spend half my life in this place. I’ve never dreamed. I’m not a mage! If I did dream, I didn’t remember it after. This is all… It always feels so empty and quite in here. Like something is waiting to…”

“Then people it! Seek a memory of crowds and conversation. You were charmed by the thought of the match-maker. And to dream with such focus: there is little limit to what you might learn. If you are willing.”

“ _How_?” Vinya begged. “How am I—“ One breath; two breaths, slow and steady. She’d braved worse battle than this. “I’d like to go back into the rotunda.”

Solas opened and held the door for her, and she walked in and sat down in her chair.

“You can wake up.”

“I know,” Vinya said.

“You were not so frightened when last we met in the Fade,” Solas reminded while sitting in his own spot.

“That’s true, yes.”

“What has changed?”

She could feel the edges of it. In her dream, where she could be free of it, there was the itch of parchment still scratching at her breast. Vinya felt over the hidden note. With her Marked hand, no less, and there had to be something in that: _a conspiracy_. Had the Fade forged this warning? Had the Fade fabricated it for some unforeseen reason no better than to torment her? Vinya still didn’t understand, it was frustrating and terrifying, and that was the difference between now and the nice time she’d had in the Haven dream with Solas so many months ago.

“Is everything alright, Inquisitor?” Solas’s words struck through her thoughts. At least he seemed concerned. “You are feeling over your heart. Is your chest hurting?”

“No,” Vinya answered, utterly calmed now. Perhaps numb was the better word. Her hand fell to her lap. “I’m fine. I’m better. Thank-you. You know what would be great, though?”

The apostate’s head tilted.

“If you told me a Fade story _while we were in the Fade_.”

Solas chuckled with surprise at the exaggerated ‘O’ she made of her mouth, like she thought the idea was hysterically genius.

“Perhaps in a setting you’ll find more comfortable.” Solas made the next suggestion in such a friendly tone. “Your tea has likely cooled.”

Vinya snorted. “Well, then, I guess we’d better—“

Consciousness. Hard. Cold. _Now._

Falling asleep in an odd angle had wrenched her neck muscles to twisted vines, like those wrapping the trees of the Dales. Rubbing away the complaint, Vinya looked around with the wondering eyes of someone who had never been in the rotunda before. Had there been sunshine? Back in the Fade, specifically. _Bright beams like ringing peals singing through the rotunda. White light washing down, sculpting Solas’s face as he spoke with the curves of smooth marble. High cheekbones chiseled to smiling; a high, clear brow bending to a gracious, subtle quirk._ Had there been windows? The scent of a sweetness different than their lunch or her tea? Was she now remembering the shadow of a throne in the great hall? _Wooden, polished; arms carved to wolves’ heads._

After messaging her neck, Vinya rubbed her forehead. How was it the world seemed less real than its echo in the Fade? The walls had felt so far, but so close, like a blanket for her mind and spirit.

Solas merely opened his eyes and a looked at her; a statue coming to life. Like that man of marble, strong and true, sitting across the desk in the false sunlight. The blush of freckles across his cheeks had been washed out by all that white. Here, thankfully, the fire glow had recovered them.

The apostate wasted no time in continuing their conversation. His was a sincerity so seldom matched.

“I apologize for before, Inquisitor. I was severe. I had not considered the strain on the mind of someone so divorced from their—From magic. And from dreaming. I offer my services in helping you understand the landscape of the Fade, if you like. I would help you, lethallan.”

Vinya smirked.

“’Services’ implies payment. You’re looking for more custard, aren’t you?” Taking some fruit in her hands to busy her attention; _ah, yes_ : to concern herself so intently with the colour of a piece of pear wasn’t conspicuous in the _least_. “But it’s not necessary, Solas. I’m sure that would inconvenience you.”

“Not at all,” Solas happily insisted, reaching for his glass of wine. “I am… curious. In regards to a non-mage’s capabilities in the Fade.”

Vinya chewed the pear. Vinya swallowed the pear. Hoping Solas would become bored and uninterested in the time it took her to eat had been a stupid idea.

All this politeness with a double-edge, uncharacteristic conversation accented by searching, and luncheon custard laced with secrets: parts of a plan to get information from Solas. Their talks were becoming –and Vinya admitted this freely to her heart– a joy. She had a chance to relax when in the rotunda, and it was interesting to see Solas so passionate. But the idea of spending more time in the Fade sounded like courting disaster with no hope of a happy engagement. Married to a demon was all it was likely to end in.

“No, Solas,” Vinya finally answered. “I’ve been sleeping pretty sparingly these days. I don’t need to be more exhausted when I actually catch a couple winks.”

 _Oh_. Top lip nearly disappearing in a thin frown, Solas then accepted with a nod. From grimacing sad to a collected cool: he had _wanted_ this. The apostate who had savored company like a sweet treat had wanted to help her, or perhaps to not be so alone while walking in the Fade. And Vinya’s consistent pressing for more stories had probably watered the dried, weeded bed of his wishing. _Cruel._

Naturally, an analytic mind like his turned to suspicious scrutiny.

“What are you searching for, Inquisitor?”

Sighing and sorry, she lied and she left. _Nothing_ , she’d said. _I’m just enjoying your stories_ , she promised. And by the way Vinya’s heart had leapt at him calling her ‘Lethallan’, perhaps it wasn’t entirely wrong. But that note, those words, that fucking—

Upon arriving in her room, fingers tore open her tunic, plucked out the parchment, and ripped it in half. And Vinya could no longer follow orders from words she could not read.


	4. Chapter 4

Their voices were not exactly the polite, lingering footfall of steps hesitating to cross the threshold. Rather, said discussion and accompanying laughter was rough-housing right out into the Throne Room. As the late hour lost the crowd; as talk tumbled together, and questions and answers wrestled metaphorically, both elves were tipsy on a lot more than pleasant conversation.

“In the dark and gloom of a room unseen for a thousand years or more, I worked tirelessly towards discovering some means of translation. A lexicon; a children’s text: but what scholar would require these? Letters in a familiar language could have been compared to a train of correspondences. A dictionary might have been the prize of the lot – if not for its utility, then for its treasured wood engravings. But I found nothing. I nearly wept. The forest of knowledge I found myself within was little more than a mass of leaves.”

Snorting at Solas’s wretched tone tormented by memories and beer, the Inquisitor stretched side-ways in the cradle of her chair. “Alright, there _has_ to be a happier ending than that. Unless the moral is ‘don’t follow spirits into creepy, dark mansions’?”

“Not quite, Inquisitor.”

Two days had gone. Two days seemed so long to a muddled mind that counted the seconds as Solas stretched towards his polished mug. Forty-two hours of… Creators, she’d felt so _free_ tearing up the note. It hadn’t just been some ominous trail of clues; it had been a string of her own deceptions that was pulled apart as Vinya refused to give further credence to instructions she had no reason to trust. It had been counting the days on her fingers as she tallied the time given to sussing out the creator of Corypheus’s orb. It had been all those machinations as she’d manipulated the male elf towards an unknown confession, and it had taken seconds to bring the warning, scheming and the counting to little, tattered pieces.

Pieces which she immediately gathered up in an envelope and stuck in her desk, but pieces nonetheless. Corypheus was the real threat, and, until there was better proof to the contrary, Corypheus was the priority.

So the Inquisitor had decided to take an evening for herself (plus an ewer of beer and a bottle of wine) and get comfortable in the rotunda. Because Vinya could have one last evening of Solas’s Fade stories before things got back to normal. The room was so cozy, after all, and had certainly been helping her relax enough to sleep.

And at the moment, sleep sounded… _well_. Vinya could hardly register anything beyond the cushy fabric of the chair. Every velvety caress, every plushy palming; she was tied to her spot only by snugness while eyeing the apostate still reaching for his beer.

“It was then that my friend found me.” Downing a good deal of the hoppy brew, Solas made a thoughtful face at the taste left in his mouth. “After poking at my disappointment, the wisp provoked me into descending a cellar-bound staircase. Naturally I’d had no interest. My pursuit was academic, and I expected only to find the remnants of stores long molded or crumbled to dust. To a point, my assumptions were correct.”

“And there you found treasure!” Vinya mused while giving a playful kick of her leg. “Silver and gold; riches beyond—wait, no! A magical… translating… spell? You wouldn’t give a shit about those other things.”

“You’ve had too much to drink.”

The woman closed her eyes drowsily while tracing the dark, cutting edges of his accent in her mind. “I have… had a lot, that’s true.”

“Might I continue?”

How the apostate could sound so serious around that smug smirk was a mystery. “I hope that wisp led you to a sense of humour.”

“In fact, you are closer than you know,” Solas chuckled. “Down into the cellar we went; through sights and smells I wished stripped from memory. There was food enough to feed a family of five, as well as servants, and I wondered at their misfortune. In the deep and ruin sat a lonely vintage with the household’s crest upon the label. The family had been wine-makers.”

 _He found booze?_ “You found _booze_?!”

“Yes! It was a joke, you see. My friend was offering a drink in which to drown my sorrows.”

“Oh, fenedhis, that’s— Really? That’s hilarious!”

Solas grinned. “Knowing they were vintners put many things in perspective. Their library; their luxury: all left without a thought and over-looked by looters. It appeared the Blight had come, and rich and poor alike fall prey to darkspawn hordes. But in that single bottle I saw generations of tradition. Ages of dedication to their craft; to technique, and cultivation—”

“I think _you’ve_ had too much to drink. Also, Solas?” Squinting at him, Vinya couldn’t see much but blue-grey eyes widened by anticipation. “You are a sentimental, old fool.”

The apostate took a sip of his brew. “I was making a point, Inquisitor.”

“Mmm; I gathered. And you never would have known —never would have _seen_ the bottle and figured all that stuff out— had the spirit not shown you where to look?”

“No. Intent on the spoils one expects from a library, I did not foresee my curiosity sated by an ancient basement. That day I learned not to dismiss knowledge gained from unlikely places, and to treasure such secret stories wrapped up in dusty cellars – or spiraling towers.”

_Secret stories wrapped in… oh, Creators._

Vinya was terribly sober all of a sudden. It was _awful_. Their conversation was no longer a loosely-knit string of sentences as she lay staring drunkenly at the ceiling, imagining Solas in some sort of ridiculous adventure’s garb and following his little wispy friend towards buried loot. No; he’d gone and said something she’d expected to never pass from his pink, pretty lips, because they belonged on bleached parchment torn to shreds instead. And by now she _had_ to be pale, and she _had_ to sit up straight in her chair, and by the Dread Wolf’s shriveled dick she _had to ask_ ,

“Whatdje y’say?”

The four-or-five mugs of beer had gotten to Solas’s brow, too, and it had fallen crooked. “Would you like me to start over?”

“No, phft… No!” Vinya hardly heard him over the rush of blood in her ears. “I mean that ‘wrapped up in towers’ bit. That sounds very… **intriguing**.”

There was an extra snort to the apostate’s little laugh. “Even when treasure-seeking vicariously, you cannot help but search every corner.”

The Inquisitor shrugged meekly. “I like shiny?”

Leaning forward, gripping the chair arms, Vinya watched every word reduce to curvings of his top lip and a pouting of the bottom, as Solas’s mouth moved in tandem with justifications of the elfmaid’s ridiculous behavior over the last week. It was frightening, but there was also triumph in knowing that the note’s warning was, in fact, credible. But it came so damned and sodding slow as Solas spoke in his plodding, poetic way. The Inquisitor’s heart was in her throat as he talked, and if her hand at _his_ throat could have shaken it out sooner, she might have considered it.

He spoke of being literal. He spoke of leaving figuratives –of forgetting mysterious stories of lovers locked in rooms for a sweet eternity— and forging towards actual libraries with actual tales, for Solas so dearly loved his secret knowledge. And there it was: like a light made of black, hollow cold reaching out to grip her fiercely.

“…and, thus, have found comfort in many such places. A merchant’s home with a backroom brimming with Chantry-banned texts. An affluent land-owner’s vault of subversive literature aimed at the very class-structure which secured their wealth. Here, even in Skyhold, there is…”

 _In Skyhold. Here. Even in Skyhold._ Sitting in the War Room amidst her advisors the next morning, the Inquisitor had a new clue stuck snug within her breast band.

The early hour came too bright through the fog of her mind and steaming Antivan coffee. Blurs of blonde and red discussed the soldier situation, as Cullen suggested having a contingent of his men be left in the Arbor Wilds to wait for the Inquisitor. The Commander gazed down his regal nose at every rough sigh and raw groan that Vinya accidently let slip, but he was polite, and would start speaking again after it seemed the Inquisitor had regained some composure.

Gold and pure purple were next to talk, and the posh colours went on about a quick trip to Val Royeaux so that she might alleviate some concerns over… wait, what?

“How late _were_ you and Solas up last night, Inquisitor?”

Vinya winced at Leliana’s question, and took a long, deep drink of her morning draught. In truth, it was hardly a hang-over. It was a baby-hangover: a child’s indulgence on sweets that had left her aching slightly in the tummy. And it was perhaps just as childish to over-act, but the sooner Vinya slipped away, the sooner she had the chance to read the note she’d barely had time to snatch up and escape with before the Spymaster had collected her for their meeting.

“I would say… midnight? Perhaps half-past?” Josephine offered a friendly but knowing smile. “Put a sweet white wine before Solas and he will refuse to leave until he’s finished the bottle. When we meet on Fridays to talk of art, he’ll drink all but a glass in the span of an hour.”

“I did not think I saw you at the tavern last night,” Cullen considered aloud, peering at her questioningly. He looked a little taken back. “And here I was concerned you were ill, not, well… _ill_.”

Vinya had cause to look just as surprised.

“The one night I’m not at the Rest, and you decide to take the evening off? Dorian must have been head-over-heels.” The elf attempted to smirk and succeeded with a grimace.

“I did not stay for long,” admitted Cullen. “Recruits, the Chargers; everyone was offering to buy me drinks. Which was well and good, because Sera kept putting things in them. Corks, shoe-strings; some things which were… _less_ dignified.”

“I’ll put a sovereign on two hours past midnight,” Leliana offered, looking to Josephine who appeared delighted.

Vinya groaned dramatically, “You are _not_ gambling on your esteemed and respected Inquisitor.”

“I’m more interested to know how much Solas can drink,” the Spymaster admitted with a twinkle in her eye.

Bets were made and bets were lost. The sun had been rising by the time Vinya stumbled out of the rotunda a short four hours ago. Knowing that there was an early council scheduled, the elf had made towards her quarters with thoughts of catching a couple of desperate winks. Instead, what she’d caught was her current headache while laying in bed and trying to ignore Solas’s words which came like the antithesis of a lullaby.

How could he have betrayed her like this?! Vinya hadn’t planned to attend the meeting all but completely distracted. The evening prior was supposed to have been filled with tipsy Fade stories and a comfortable sleep, not her sneaking around the apostate’s confession as she tried to get details out of him.

_Where in Skyhold? Really? But I want to see! Oh, come on. I was so nice and I brought you this beer –or, well, the wine was for you— and I think it’s only fair… I do **not** only ply you with food when I want something! I ply you with food, **then** I want something. Come on, Solas, I can see you smiling…_

Vinya had known she should have gone after dark, or at least when the serving staff weren’t just staring to wake, but only action would alleviate her anxiety. And so down some halls, up some stairs, to a hidden nook she’d gone, following Solas’s instructions.

Reaching her destination, wine and sleep deprivation caused the reality of the situation to wring out a sudden flood of tears. The Inquisitor had snatched up a conspicuous envelope sitting on a table and shuffled back into the halls where there was more light. It was then that Leliana’s footsteps had started echoing down the corridor.

Unsurprisingly, most of these details were rather _forgotten_ as she told the ambassadors how she’d left Solas to his chair around dawn, his eyes fluttering drowsily behind soft lashes. Impressed, and both sorely off in their estimations, Leliana and Josephine offered to buy the apostate a round next time they met at the tavern (should that ever happen).

“Yes, well, now that we have that is out of the way— “

“Spoil-sport!”

Vinya laughed softly. Cullen was shaking his head to the last dregs of his bemusement.

“Perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand? Although I hardly see how my presence is required if we’re discussing Orlais’s hurt feelings. Might I be excused to communicate with my men as to your instructions?”

“Absolutely. Two-dozen men at most, and we’ll be leaving for the Arbor Wilds within the week,” Vinya affirmed while still smiling a little. She felt so much better when dealing with Inquisition matters instead of these secrets. “Stationed at the Tindown check-point, as you suggested. Not too close to the town, however; I don’t want to make the villagers nervous. Unless our soldiers can make themselves useful.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” the man nodded before showing himself out.

Ever the gracious hostess, Josephine took this moment of distraction to scoop up the Inquisitor’s cup and saucer, and approached a tall pitcher of polished silver. Leliana, too, scooted her emptied mug in line for a refill, and soon the three women were meandering around the War Table while enjoying the rich, invigorating smell of their drinks.

“I think the Commander stayed later at the tavern than he would have us believe,” Josephine said with a wink as she held her delicate porcelain cup with three fingers and a thumb, her pinky pointing out on formal display. “Now, Inquisitor, as for Orlais, I—“

“I actually have a question before we move on,” Vinya posited cautiously. The thought of leaving for where the Well was willing her put a fire under the heels of her more private, preoccupying concerns. “Although I think you can guess my opinion on people griping about our use of the Grey Warden treaties.”

“It isn’t simply that it looks to all the world that we stole these resources,” Josephine retaliated with tact and grace. “There are rumours spreading that Orlais’s power is being undermined by the Inquisition.”

“Yes. They are coming from Fereldan, of all places,” Leliana added with a smirk.

The elf’s head fell back in a dramatic gesture of anguish. It caused an actual spike of pain to pulse sharply between her ears.

“Could we even afford to pay back those whose things we took? And how would we possibly make it up to the people who joined as soldiers under the pretense of supporting the Wardens?”

It was ludicrous, of course; the Inquisition had been strengthened by all of the goods Blackwall’s false treaties had allowed them. In addition to this, the last thing she wanted to do was give credence to these complaints. Now –when Corypheus was so near defeated— was when the Inquisition needed to appear unrelenting. Once they were done, the masses could dismantle the castle and cart away the masonry for all she cared.

“As I have said to Cullen, we will not always be at war,” Josephine appealed. “When Corypheus is defeated, we shall, by the Maker’s grace, still remain, and we will still have need of allies.”

_When Corypheus is defeated._

Vinya considered these words. She’d never thought much on what she’d do once that blighted mess was destroyed. Join the Red Jennies? Travel? Go home to the clan? The latter had always seemed inevitable, but the appeal began to wane as time passed. Her role had been that of a hunter, with responsibilities falling short at feeding and defending her people. The thought of returning to such a humble, strict station had the elf snorting under her breath.

But what did it matter? Who cared if Corypheus was defeated? It wasn’t him or his orb which was to doom the world. And if she could have snuck away for just a second, Vinya might have gleaned just who _was_ supposed to be responsible. Thinking about the new note had her palm absolutely itching.

On the other hand –the one stroking a metaphorical beard thoughtfully– Lady Montilyet’s worries had opened up an interesting avenue of thought.

“I _am_ concerned about the Inquisition’s longevity, Josephine,” Vinya ‘promised’ while straightening her posture and looking between her advisors. It wasn’t much of a stretch: if the Inquisition’s continuation secured both the Ambassador’s and Spymaster’s futures, then that was preferable. “And I’m just as concerned about what might come after, or what our role would be. If Corypheus was gone, we would still have the Venatori to contend with, would we not?”

Leliana lifted her brow thoughtfully. “The Imperium does not support them. Officially, they are condemned, but that has not diminished their numbers or dedication. Whether that will remain the case without their Elder One, however, I do not know.”

“Could they ever be capable of the sort of destruction Corypheus has wrought?”

It was difficult to conclude whether her line of questioning would allow her to toe the edge of subtlety, or have her careening into a sea of obviousness. But, having erroneously dismissed the note’s validity, Vinya wondered if she hadn’t been looking at other things the wrong way, as well.

The elf had previously been concerned with influences coming from within, such as whispers from the Wells, or the Fade’s influences over her through her hand. But what if the words were tied to something physical? Why not suspect a Venatori plot? Solas insisted that the orb was elven, but Dorian had suggested it may have come from his homeland. What if the magister, rather than the apostate, was correct? What if the warning eventually pointed to the cult, and the power in her palm came from the northern country, too?

The possibilities were ruminated upon – Vinya’s vocalized concerns, not her private ones. Eventually Josephine turned the conversation’s tide back towards the Warden treaty problem. After all, she had no reason to be as worried about these same things as Vinya. By the time the coffee was gone, the Ambassador had conceded that the Inquisition would not be apologizing.

Begging leave, the Inquisitor made for her room, forcing herself to remember the worse of her ‘hang-over’ had been a ruse to leave early. For every seven steps up to her room, a clasp of her tunic was let go, until she was reaching the main of her quarters with a hand stuffed down the blue band holding her breasts from bobbing around.

“Her gracious Lady-Bits’ lady bits! Better put ‘em away, Vin, there’s no— “

“Sera?! What are you **_doing_** in here?”

Vinya sounded about as angry as she felt: perturbed; pissed. Her eyes immediately shot towards the desk the younger elf was perched upon, and in which sat an envelope containing the pieces to the torn up first letter. It was less than impossible that Sera would have gone through the trouble of attempting to decipher it, had she found it, but the thought still had the older elf on edge.

“I was just— What’s got up your butt?”

“I’m… a little hung-over,” Vinya confessed as she closed her tunic, thankful for the incredibly plausible excuse. She managed some very convincing groans of pain whose inspiration came straight from the heart (or between the eyes, to be more specific). “I had a really late night and a really early council. Sorry.”

The blonde’s brows shot up in cautious delight. “You’re in bits? _Why_? Thought you were with—“ Sera squinted so loudly it could be heard like the static before a storm. “So now you’re smashing back with Solas? That’s _our_ thing. Why are you doing _our_ thing with _him_? You said you had Inquizzy shite to do, and… I can’t believe this, you!”

Hopping off the desk, the blonde made for the stairs with a black rain-cloud trailing over and behind her. Passing Vinya for the stairs, she didn’t even meet her eyes.

“Actually, I can, that’s the worst part. Yesterday it’s a dunk in that well, today it’s playing nice with that prick, and tomorrow you’ll be asking nobles which arse-cheek to peck.”

“Sera, wait.”

Sighing, Vinya didn’t even put the request forward particularly forcefully. Standing there sleep-deprived alongside someone she rarely saw frown, let alone scowl, the Inquisitor realized how exhausted she was. It was frustrating that she couldn’t just tell her friend why all this was happening. Just as frustrating was the fact that Sera wasn’t willing to let it slide. But Vinya also didn’t _need_ to raise her voice, and she knew it. Sera’s outburst of emotion was asking sadly to be subdued, as she turned back around from a few steps down.

“When’d we stop being good enough for you, Vin?”

“Look,” began the Inquisitor with her palms up in surrender, “tonight… I guess. If I’m still alive by tonight, I’ll come down to the Rest. I promise.” She hoped the wince on her brow came across as apologetic. ”Do you want to hear excuses as to why I’ve been spending time with Solas?”

Sera shrugged. “Because he’s a lonely, loony looser and you’re too nice for your own good?”

“Well, that _is_ why I spend time with you.”

Footsteps fell heavy as they descended to the lower levels of Skyhold. Insulting Sera’s intelligence was something one should only do when the blonde was in a much better mood. She’d had enough people causing the elf to doubt herself throughout her life, and she was certainly warranted to take it a little personally, even when it was done by a friend in good humour.

Slamming her hands over her eyes in annoyance with everything, Vinya reveled in the momentary lack of light as it soothed her mind. Then she remembered the task at hand.

At least things could return relatively to normal now that her free time would no longer be allotted to keeping Solas company. It had been a good run. Getting to know him better; seeing him as someone who liked company but was afraid to seek it: he was so _normal_. Vinya now understood the man’s obsession with the Fade, and although she would never try navigating its unreliable contours, those memories Solas had seen made the idea nearly appealing. Or, in the very least, she could appreciate _his_ appreciation.

The apostate’s passion for simple, beautiful moments would not be forgotten. Neither would the desire to keep asking for more: more quiet evenings in the rotunda, for example, in favor over all the tavern’s loudness. Months ago — _a week ago,_ before all these stupid letters— that was all Vinya had ever wanted at the end of the day, but now things were getting exhausting. Her duties as Inquisitor were taking more out of her. She wanted more of her comfy chair and that soothing narration.

More, more, more: there was no denying she wished to uncover further wrinkles around Solas’s smiling eyes as the Inquisitor found herself going on about silly or interesting responsibilities which she never would have bored Sera or Blackwall with. The idea of more personal habits was endearing: the elfmaid was still dying to point out that Solas dog-eared specific texts while carefully book-marking others. Was this a rebellion against tombs which he found unworthy? A war with words he had reasons to doubt?

But it was hard to weigh this new, budding friendship against all those moments of frustration and sadness which she had shared with Sera, or Blackwall, or Dorian. Vinya had sobbed on the shoulders of all three, and once her tears and runny nose had been wiped on someone’s clean shirt, that was a bond she would not break. So things would get back to normal now, and for that she was grateful, because there was something so purely—

Eyes skimming over the note, the elf’s jaw clicked when her mouth fell ajar.

_For your next clue, follow the apostate's road to the land of his compassion. Ask Solas of the first person we saved as the Inquisition. It will take you to the truth._

“Oh, for… _really_?!”

Maybe she could bring Solas to the tavern?

 


	5. Chapter 5

The evening was exceedingly fair. Lilac-dappled clouds hung low like a ceiling, and the grass was goaded to trembling by a tepid, breathy breeze. It was as though the castle had been convinced that its cradle wasn’t mountain cliffs, and yet, for all this warmth, the Inquisitor shivered. Arms folded across her chest, shoulders pushed forward; Vinya huddled into herself while moving down the steps of Skyhold.

“You seem apprehensive, Inquisitor. What is the source of your nervousness? You did _mention_ to your fellows I was coming along?”

A sighing laugh answered Solas’s question, but his words hardly took hold in elfmaid’s mind. Vinya was gripped too firmly by the letter found that morning, which had slapped her with more of the same: solitude and secrets. But at least her own possessed hand was conceding to the situation’s ridiculousness, as said the newest message.

_You are getting closer to the man who created the orb, but do not forget the need for secrecy_

_I wish I could say more. I wish I could explain why I’m leading you – **us** – through what must seem like a children’s game. And I wish I could convince you of the need to shoulder this burden alone. But in the end, hopefully you’ll appreciate the lengths I’ve gone to. Of course, it’s all hopeless if you fail._

_For your next clue, follow the apostate's road to the land of his compassion. Ask Solas of the first person we saved as the Inquisition. It will take you to the truth._

Her palm itched green static at the thought. And, about an hour ago, having taken into careful consideration the old, paramount need for secrecy, Vinya had decided that she was going to tell somebody everything.

**_Everything._ **

It was a course of action that came like a revelation. After the cleansing clarity of a light afternoon nap, Vinya had hauled herself out of bed, looked around, and not for the first time felt like she was coming from a dream. It wasn’t for the fresh, new reality of the room, but rather the hardness of everything softening to something comforting. The lines which drew the world of the Fade were like oil slathered on artlessly, and its shadows were long and deceptive.

The last week in the real world had felt exactly so. Her relationships with friends were crumbling, and her duties as Inquisitor were more distraction than responsibility. Every word spoken had been as much a lie as the slopes and cracks of Dream-Skyhold, which Vinya was dragged back into like a prisoner when she closed her eyes. But as soon as the thought came to mind, ‘ _well, I can tell **one** person, can’t I?_ ’ suddenly she saw everything in a new light. This would be some amount of control over the situation, and it would not be measured in teaspoons or pinches. When Vinya figured out who she would tell, truths and disclosures were going to pour down like a wet, Free Marches rain.

The question of her future confidant was now catching up with her. She was practically tripping over the possibilities – and down the stairs for all her distracted thinking.

“I did _not_ inform them, actually,” Vinya finally answered, looking at Solas who was a step behind her as they moved towards the tavern. “It isn’t that big of a deal.”

Solas’s brow rose in slightly offended shock.

“No, I mean…” Swallowing this lack of tact like medicine, Vinya turned from preoccupied reflections to the man at her side. “Why should it matter if you’re there? You are simply a member of the Inquisition coming to partake in booze and bad gossip like the rest of us.”

“Yet you appear distracted; pained, in some measure.” Solas seemed to be rearranging his thoughts as they came to the last step and touched upon the ground. “Then perhaps you have not fully recovered from last night’s excess?”

The woman exchanged Solas’s knowing smirk with one of her own, and took that for what it was. _No, Solas, it’s not all about you. Sometimes it’s about Corypheus’s orb, impending doom, and just how are you so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, anyways? Is that some mage trick? You drank more than me! You were practically falling over when I—_

Instead, “You mean this morning’s excess?” slipped out while the apostate continued to eye her questioningly. The Inquisitor sighed. “Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not nervous. Why would I be? Wait. I warned you that Bull and Blackwall get _really_ intrusive when they’re smashed, right?”

“Considering their cheek when sober, it should be amusing to see what they manage while drunk.”

There was more of a challenge in this than Vinya expected. Spotting her friends exiting the tavern had her wondering, dreading, and then excitedly anticipating what the evening would lead to. As long as it wasn’t yelling.

“Boss, you brought company! Hey, the more the merrier.”

“Oh, Sera is going to love this…”

“What? I’m gonna— _Tits_.”

Bull, Blackwall, and Sera emptied from the tavern like so many things falling out of a pocket: Vinya’s analytical mind in battle, found in the bulk of Iron Bull’s massive brain and body; Vinya’s stalwart protector, seen under the mass of Blackwall’s luscious beard; and her peace of mind, as Sera was the one who kept things in perspective while they holed up in blonde’s apartment with booze, elfroot, and lazy conversation. Seeing all these lovely things in a lump sum reminded the dark haired elf of how long it had been since she had laughed loud and hard in their comfortable company. The wash of affection through her was like something sweet, though it soured a little at Sera’s pissed-off frown. Vinya fought the need to bristle, having already known the archer wouldn’t appreciate Solas being there.

“Are we drinking outside?” the Inquisitor asked upon noting what the others were carrying. “The weather _is_ surprisingly nice.”

“Bull suggested we spar. Seems to think maybe you need it.” Blackwall, with polished cups in hand for four of them, looked between Solas and Vinya, and clearly there was more he wanted to say.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Bull affirmed, hefting the keg to a grassy, shady spot where he often trained with his Chargers. “Last decent fight we had was at the temple, and I figured you might be ready to pop. Don’t worry, Solas; Sera usually sits out and watches from the side-lines. She can keep you company.”

“Fat chance,” Sera pouted, spurred on by Bull’s little wink to the apostate. “He’s gonna be all sorry and sour. Probably spend the whole time winching in elfy. Or trying to teach me how to winch in elfy.”

“Nonsense,” Solas countered politely. “Is there a reason I may not participate?”

The moment that followed was as taut as tight string.

“Well, the fireballs, for starters,” Blackwall pointed out eventually. “We usually use padded swords. Not sure padding your fingers would do anything but defeat the purpose.”

“But what if we use shields?” Bull suggested, his eye piquing with interest as he returned from putting the keg down. “Gotta say, I’d like to see you cut loose, Solas.”

Vinya warmed at Bull’s easy acceptance of the apostate joining their group, and hoped this hospitality would extend to any skirmishing the two might do. Bull was formidable, and it had been months since the elfmaid had personally seen Solas in action. For the most part, he usually stayed back at Skyhold when the Inquisition set out. The few times he had journeyed with them, the Inquisitor found no need of the apostate in her smaller contingent and he’d remained at camp, busying himself however.

There came a prickling premonition of Bull over-powering the elf, but just around the corner of Vinya’s mind there was the image of Solas easily dispatching templars in the Hinterlands. So many months had passed since then –enough that time should have fogged over the details— yet it had been one of those sights she’d go to the grave with.

The dust had settled. The bandits had disappeared. Or, rather, they’d reorganized into heaps of corpses, as Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and Vinya attempted to put an end to the war between templars and mages. Naturally, they’d gotten caught in the middle.

Blood smeared across Solas’s brow, though there was no wound. Such a spatter of red across his skin and humble vestments had looked so sad somehow. Cassandra drew attention to it with a point of her finger, and while Solas smiled in thanks and wiped it away, Vinya had been unable to shake the sight of a templar exploding in a shower of howling ice shards. Falling to the ground like snow, the fragments had not been without gore.

 _Mages_. The incident didn’t leave her unsettled with him necessarily, but there came been a heightened dislike of magical abilities, as well as the Fade, from the whole thing. Healing spells she liked just fine, but to freeze someone from the inside out seemed like… cheating.

“How about we explain the rules to him first?” Vinya offered. They weren’t exactly typical, or safe. As she rummaged around for the right word, the Inquisitor couldn’t stop from sounding goading. “There are certain _specifics_ you might not appreciate.”

But something was wrong. It had started with Bull saying he could watch, and now this was bothering Solas, too. The elf sniffed and stared back. “Why is that?”

It was ‘the look’. Grey eyes became slits, and the apostate’s lips pursed as through trying to dam in a disapproving speech. It was that old, uppity façade that Sera had so much fun imitating. Suddenly the Inquisitor felt oddly at home, and a giggle erupted from her lips.

“Because you’re _definitely_ more responsible than the rest of us,” she told him.

Unfortunately, her humour wasn’t catching. With a stiff, stern shake of his head, Blackwall went to put the cups by the keg, and Bull walked off to find training weapons. Solas looked between the other two elves rather firmly.

“Right,” Sera finally chimed, coming over and hefting an elbow up on Vinya’s shoulder. “ _Responsible_. In other words: up-tight. Get ready to cut, Solas, this party ain’t for you puckered types.”

“ _Sera_ ,” Vinya chastised lightly. It wasn’t until the blonde poked in that the older elf noticed she’d done Solas a disservice in assuming his attitude. Realizing the empty feeling in her gut was guilt, she moved along the conversation’s road as though the scenic view wasn’t Solas looking very unhappy. “Alright, so, it’s nothing too complicated. Two people square off, and for every blow that isn’t blocked, the person who scored the hit takes a drink of whatever we’ve got. To keep things fair. Once there’s twenty sips down, partners change.”

Solas’s brow shot up. “And no serious injuries have come of this exercise?”

“Like Blackwall said, everything is padded. And this isn’t about competition. It’s about fun.”

“Well, I shall keep that in mind,” Solas said, eyes flitting to the Iron Bull as he returned with his arms fully laden. “I will endeavour to enjoy myself. While blissfully drunk and when the three of you are beaten.”

Sera sputtered a surprised snort, and Vinya’s mouth formed a perfect circle.

“I said it’s _not_ about competition!” She called after him as he went to help Bull with the instruments. “You’re already doing it wrong!”

As reigning champion, the respected Inquisitor was hooted at until she agreed to go first with the person of her choosing. She went with Blackwall. She _always_ went with Blackwall. Sparring with Iron Bull ended up putting Vinya too much in her own head as she tried to out-maneuver the Tal-Vashoth who knew exactly when and how to get under her skin. Not only that, but with Bull she instantly felt like she had something to prove, which was in opposition to the ‘not a competition’ rule. Bull led his own men, and was, without a doubt, smarter than she was. Yet Vinya was the Inquisitor. She was _supposed_ to be good. She was supposed to be _better_. But by the time she’d worked with Blackwall and had a few drinks in her, Vinya loosened up, and Bull’s taunts or sneaky, expert moves mostly ended up with her giggling until she got a padded sword to the face.

Beyond that, however, there was something about Blackwall she just liked going at. He was so much passion, and hefting, swinging arms, and his moves didn’t deviate too much. It was like a dance with him, and this was something he knew but didn’t change. The dance had echoes of their sad conversation on the ramparts months and months ago when they had first come to Skyhold.

_“Why is it impossible? I know you have feelings for me.”_

But he’d said “ _my lady, don’t,_ ” and she never did. The conversation ended there.

This time, of course, it was more about leaving Iron Bull for Solas to take on. Bull was obviously eager and welcoming of the apostate joining their group, and Vinya figured he might go easier on the elf.

“Think you remember how to do this?” Blackwall asked with a grinning twitch to his beard. The two met, face to face, with swords and shields, and their outer layers shed. Vinya had tied her long, singular braid up into a bunch at the back of her head, and was still marveling that it was warm enough to only be wearing her pants and breast-band.

“Beat you or drink beer?” Vinya answered. Squaring her stance, swaying at the shoulders to loosen up, she grinned. “I had some practise with the latter last night, so maybe go easy on me.”

“Not on your life,” the man laughed thickly before taking his first swing. He always took the first swing. _Ever the gentleman._

The thwooping of steel through the air like the beating of a bird’s wing was an old song she’d missed. This was everything. This was _all_. The shield rattled when it was rocked by a blow, her feet slipped a little in the fresh grass – _down she went_ – but the victory booze was still hers. It wasn’t winning that she liked, though. It was the pounding of her chest, and trying to keep her limbs in check as the adrenaline pulsed through her, pushing her to run, or swing. This was a natural case of her body working against her, unlike whatever was going on with her Creator’s cursed hand these days.

But who cared? Who cared about that, as Blackwall swung high, Vinya heaved her weight behind her shield, pushed him back, slammed up against his own shield, and toppled him. She earned a refreshing sip of her beer, as she had nearly twenty times already. Apparently her body was on fire, and Bull had been right: she’d needed this.

It felt so good to be this exhausted. Breathing hard to get the oxygen she required to work around Blackwall’s honed offensive skills, Vinya’s vision blurred just a little, and she knew she’d be getting dizzy soon. But not before her body surged like some god of strength, and Elgar’nan bow down before the might of Vinya, daughter of Laurelin, as she—

“Oh! Oh-ho! There we go! Yes!”

Having swatted Blackwall’s arse with her sword as she circled behind him, the Inquisitor raised her arms and started shaking her hips in a tasteless dance of victory.

“Formidable as ever, my lady,” Blackwall conceded with a huffing laugh which turned into a cough.

“That was cheap!” Iron Bull called over.

One would think Vinya had never been so offended in her life. “What?!” But hearing her own shrill voice made the woman glad there was only one last mouthful of beer before she could stop. Because she was _getting_ there.

Correction: she’d arrived; to the land of uneven ground and a swirly sky. Stumbling to where her cup sat, Vinya saw Solas standing tall and playing with wisps of flame in his palm, having chosen to forgo the use of a staff. The shield for blocking blows was at his feet. His cup to be filled, when earned, was held firmly in his non-flamey hand. He looked… _huh_. In that form-fitting shirt, his shoulders _looming_ , and neck long and graceful around an obvious Adam’s apple, he looked really, really—

Creators, the evening was warm.

“You fought well, Inquisitor,” Solas observed. Letting his lit hand move slowly to his side, the elf peered down at her image which had collapsed in the grass. “Too well, perhaps. I’d hoped to fare against you in better form. You _could_ have allowed Blackwall a few blows.”

Still catching her breath, Vinya sputtered at his confidence. “It’s usually a few rounds before I’m this… _this_. Besides, I was taking big gulps. And drinking fast. Let’s see _you_ win against Bull first, city-boy.”

The insult directed at the non-Dalish elf should have rubbed him wrong. Considering his mood before, Solas ought to have been glowering. But he was not. A slow grin dragged at the corner of his mouth, and their eyes met beyond the haze of Vinya’s tipsiness. In a second of stirring lucidity, her heart stopped and jumped to her throat. Then Blackwall’s footfall was heard through the dirt.

“Sober up, Vinya; it would not do for a drunk apostate to defeat the hale Inquisitor,” chided ‘said apostate’ as he moved towards his opponent. Vinya cast an accusatory glare at her beer to keep from watching Solas’s butt as he walked away.

_Fenedhis, this is worse than that time with Blackwall._

One knee audibly creaked as the newly-arrived false Grey Warden sat at her side. Every breath out of him came at the cost of a little groan or rough sigh while he got his wind back and became comfortable.

The heat she felt from the weather, the booze, and the stirred adrenaline was not forgotten while Vinya admired the well-won sweat sticking Blackwall’s hair across his forehead. The swelter of their skirmish –the fever bought from steel against steel, and bodies clashing against each other— radiated off his presence, though he drank from his cup indifferently while eyeing the male elf and Tal-Vashoth. With all the dark, stern slants of Blackwall’s eyebrows, his was a gaze that would have easily gotten lost if not for the intensity of the soul within.

As was the reaction of any tested warrior, movement drew his stare like a moth to flame. Though fixed intently on the budding fight between Solas and Bull, he looked instantly to Vinya who swayed into him, as she found something sorry in their silence. They were never this quiet after a match.

“I’m getting old, Blackwall,” Vinya sighed, putting her not-quite empty cup in front of him to finish. “I’ve only had… how much have I only had?”

“Couple pints. Did you remember to eat today?” Blackwall crooked his knee up and propped his arm on it.

“Phft, of course. Who do you think you’re talking to? Hardly got any sleep, though. Late night last night, like I said. Gods, when’s he going to go for it?”

Solas and Bull both were circling each other more than actually attempting any hits. The Tal-Vashoth was playing, of course, and seeing Solas’s defensive reach while swiping lazily at the elf’s unguarded left hand, but it was nothing serious.

“Who walks away and who stumbles?” Blackwall wondered, relaxing more into a sloped posture while picking up her cup to graciously drain it.

There was the urge to favor Bull out of old loyalty, but Solas’s last words were still on her mind.

“I bet Solas lets Bull land a lot of hits before tying it up. Might win. He’s got the brain to take Bull on, but Bull likes to use his stamina and he’s got it like a halla. Solas looks pretty spry, though. How you old bastards do it is beyond me. You’ve practically got one leg in the grave already. Shit, I don’t know! This is supposed to be about getting drunk, not showing off!”

Throwing her hands up, she fell backwards onto the cool grass that had started calling. It crunched and tickled, and scratched just right. Vinya couldn’t believe how good she felt. She was safe with her friends, and the beer in her blood had convinced her that every inch of her was warm and serene. She remembered there’d been a reason for being away from Bull, Blackwall and Sera for so long, but then her thoughts started careening off in another direction, and it was rather difficult to remember why the last week looked like a bleak, black storm in hindsight. But then it came back to her, and it was like secret treasure in her hand.

Blackwall was trustworthy. Blackwall was who she trusted the _most_ with her life. If she told him and his sad, searching stare about the letters, maybe he would—

“So. You fancy him?”

Vinya grabbed on to the man’s arm clad only in an under shirt and pulled herself up.

“You’re as bad as Sera,” was her dismissive comment. _Speaking of which_ … “Where’d she toddle off to, anyways?”

“Oh, come on,” Blackwall chastised. “You had to know she wouldn’t stick around with Solas here.”

“I… ugh. Is it so much to ask my Inquisition gets along for five fricking minuets?”

The man turned back to the brawl. “The girl’s got her reasons. Solas rubs her wrong, and you know it. She’d have been happy with just the two of you holed up for the night. She’s feeling neglected, Vin. And she’s worried about everything that happened at the temple. But you’d know that if you’d taken a minuet to talk to her.”

“I’ve been busy, Blackwall,” Vinya countered angrily. The alcohol made it a quick gallop from happy to pissed-off, and the warrior had to get ready for the ride. “Busy doing my job. Busy planning to go back to that stupid temple. Or near ‘bouts, at least. And, yes, I know her. Would it kill her to play nice? Just once?”

“Play? Sera is the one person who doesn’t play or pretend. That’s nothing new. You should have warned her Solas was coming; that’s all I’ll say.”

The elf groaned. Most of her wanted to shake Sera until she understood or accepted, but the part of Vinya that wasn’t horrendous hung her head in shame. Sera’s loyalty was hard bought and priceless, and why shouldn’t she be disappointed when, until little more than a week ago, every night had found the two of them sniggering away at The Herald’s Rest? If Sera had a job beyond the Red Jenny stuff, it was to keep Vinya down to earth with pranks and throwing pies (though they only did that once).

But the rogue wasn’t failing her. The Inquisitor had all but forgotten the security of solid ground under her feet while her head was up her arse about these letters (to employ Sera’s jargon), but the rogue _wasn’t_ failing her. Vinya was at fault. She hadn’t exactly made her self available. Of course, she’d been so busy with…

Groaning again, the elf wanted to slump against Blackwall’s body and feel the brush of arm hair on her skin, but Solas had just been forced to take a sip of his beer and now her attention was on the fight.

 “I came out to make it up to her, you know?” the elf finally lamented.

“Well now I feel all warm and wanted,” Blackwall poked, trying not to grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vinya smiled.

It was so good of him to care about her, and about Sera. He was always willing to listen, and never judged harshly. His previous scolding was simply a harsh truth: Vinya _should_ have mentioned that Solas was coming.

The words came slow, slurred and sloppy, but they were there nonetheless. “Honestly, I’m not sleeping good. _Well_. Not sleeping _well_. And there’s something that’s been… bothering me. It’s… it’s not right that I’m letting it get to me like this, but, Blackwall, I…”

Concerned, sorry and nervous, the man looked at her. What harrowed the woman who had forgiven and freed him would haunt him until he could help; until he could protect her from it. Blackwall’s lips parted just a little, readying to ask her what the problem was, but when Bull hollered something from the afar, both looked over.

“You’re up, boss,” the Tal-Vashoth said while walking over and jerking his thumb in the opposite direction. “Watch out for Solas; he’s sneaky.”

Vinya’s eyes widened as she made two separate attempts to get to her feet. “He won already?! But he just… Seriously?”

Taking her empty tankard with her, the Inquisitor tried to convince herself of sobriety as she approached her opponent. Solas was standing by the keg, one hand on his hip, the other tilting his cup to his face. His throat seemed to ripple as he suckled — _drank; he’s **drinking**_ — the sweet ale, and after he downed the rest, he looked to her.

“Perhaps a moment to collect yourself, lethallan? Enjoyable though this is, you appear flushed. I don’t wish to see the Inquisition inconvenienced because its leader was over-exerted.”

 _Flushed. Over-exerted. **Lethallan**_. The bastard fought dirty indeed.

Walking to where they would fight, poking Solas’s butt with her padded sword as she passed, Vinya congratulated herself on this unfazed, absolutely normal breach of personal boundaries, and readied herself. She was going _down_ – due to the amount of beer she’d have to imbibe, to be specific. Because she was going to win. And Solas was going to eat his words.


	6. Chapter 6

Ten toes dug into the dirt. The ground was hard under bare heel, and this made all the difference in reconciling both battlefield and body. They were one through naked contact; an elegant line drawn by a flick of the wrist while the rest waited to be coloured by contours of fighting.

Muscle guided steady calves to working in a predatory circle. Anxious ankles teased their opponent: first by padding closer, then by pulling back. These movements promised nothing less than a brutal struggle as Vinya of clan Lavellan labored to tear her tizzied, tipsy gaze from Solas’s feet while teetering on her own.

“Have you prepared, Inquisitor?” the man inquired curiously. “Or perhaps you would prefer staring at my legs a few minuets more?”

Vinya’s lips fell into a frown. _You smug, thin-eared city-boy._

The booze on her breath made her glare at the comment, but her natural disposition got her giggling quick after. Drunk-sparring Solas was going to be either the best or the worst thing to come of that week, and the list of lately’s memorable moments was getting pretty long: alienating her friends, fighting an enemy only she knew about; meeting Mythal (or so Flemeth claimed). By the Great Mother’s bountiful love-jugs, when had the grumpy apostate become the highlight of her day?

Stupid question, that. Vinya could count on her fingers how many days it had been. Fingers which were _supposed_ to be busy gripping her weapon, rather than metaphorically caressing through memories of nights in the rotunda.

Inhaling slowly, straightening out some of the bending details in her vision, Vinya surveyed the training yard, Bull and Blackwall off in the background, and the distance between the two combatants. Tightening her shield-grip, loosening her sword arm, in a flash she thrust at Solas’s thigh while keeping his gaze caught firmly in hers. It caused the man to jump.

“I don’t know,” Vinya chided cheekily. “Are _you_ ready?”

With lips pursed, Solas stared back.

“The point is yours, I suppose.” He glanced at the keg near the on-lookers. “Now, if you’ll take your sip, we might start in earnest.”

For all the stiffness of tone, though, Solas’s eyes didn’t darken like the lengthening hour. If anything, his stare became brighter and sharper than it should have for the low clouds and setting sun. He sniffed while trying to look inscrutable, but it was obvious: the man was smug. _Cocky_.

After Vinya had a quick drink, they began. Side-stepping to the right, the Inquisitor kept her upper half solid and controlled while Solas drifted as liquid as a breeze to the right. The first move came quickly and it was his, but it wasn’t exactly what was expected. There was a cleansing tingling, a startling shimmer of diaphanous jade-light, and Vinya’s mind grew a little clearer. As did her ire.

The warrior had fought many mages before: Venatori, rebels in the Hinterlands; Freeman enchanters in the Dales. None of them had been so kind as to cast a barrier to take the brunt of their attacks. But that didn’t mean she was interested in having extra magic _crawling_ all over her.

“Don’t need the help, Solas,” came her terse warning. She could feel it, and see his mana florid on her flesh. It spoke to old fears and was frustrating. Even if it did stabilize her vision while taking the ever-persistent sting out of her Marked hand for a second.

_Actually feels kind of nice._

Solas merely smirked in response. “That remains to be seen. Until a moment ago, you were intent on nothing more than my ankles.”

Hand moving in the air as though gathering water, he lobbed a ball of flame which Vinya jerked her shield in front of. She slowly gained ground while circling closer, herding him to where she wanted like she would with a halla. He certainly had the thick skull for it. And graceful limbs.

“I needed to see how you held yourself,” the woman explained. “It’s been a while since I’ve watched you fight, and it all starts at the feet.”

“True,” agreed the apostate, empty palm held out and readying for the next moment to utilize his mana. “Posture and bearing are as important as shield or blade. Apologies, Vinya: I thought you distracted, but it appears you are as focused as ever.”

“Distracted?” Vinya lunged forward, swung high once, twice, then went low, but Solas blocked the tactic with a grunt. “What would be distracting me?”

“Drunken, lazy thoughts?” By the twitch at his lips, however, it was obvious that an attack was to accompany Solas’s next verbal blow. Glossing green curled around his fingers and there was practically a twinkle in his eye. “Or perhaps it _was_ simply my legs.”

Raising her shield just in time, a Fade fist slammed into the wood and knocked Vinya onto her back. Rolling three times, and narrowly missing two cones of ice, she hopped to her feet, darted at Solas, and slammed up against his raised safeguard.

“If that thought boosts your confidence, then I say go for it,” the Inquisitor huffed, jumping back and trying to catch him on his unguarded side. She was unsuccessful. Luckily, Solas was summoning his mana, and in the time it took Vinya to bring her arm down and block with her shield, Solas’s second Fade fist erupted between them and caught no one.

_Gotta stop letting him have time to regroup; that attack is **crazy**._

“I’ll bolster my confidence with your breathlessness, Inquisitor,” Solas taunted while giving ground as she came forward. “All these offensive feats, and for what? I’ve barely broken a sweat, but you are gasping for air.”

Although he’d actually attacked more often, it was true: she _was_ going at it pretty hard. Whenever their shields met, or she attempted a strike, Vinya threw her whole body up against his and felt something sweet like victory in each collision. The adrenaline of action always got her a little buzzed, but with the beer in her, and Solas looking so wonderfully –determined? Challenging? Predatory? It all combined to course absolute exhilaration through her veins stronger than any cocktail.

She was quickly exhausting herself, though. Not to mention letting the apostate throw her off with his talk. And impudence. And freckles. If she could just get to that unguarded side…

“How many fights have I been in, Solas? How many battles?” Flitting to the right, she kept watching for an opening. “How many big-ass things have I beaten? Giants? Dragons? Ogres? And you think my moves are getting me out of breath? No, lethallin, this time it _is_ your legs.”

Although it was cheap, whatever magic he’d been mustering sputtered to nothing as Vinya smacked the surprised man’s arm with her padded sword. A cheer sounded from the half-in-the-sack spectators: Bull whistling, Blackwall applauding. Solas blinked, considered the situation, and nodded slow in concession.

“Drink, Inquisitor.”

It was not so easy to catch him after that. The distance between them did not say long, but, for all that stature, Solas was remarkably nimble. Every time Vinya moved in and swung, the man leapt out of the way and lead her on another round of circling in the dirt as she made her way closer. And aimed. And missed. _Again_.

“You’re pretty good at dodging my attacks,” Vinya complimented sweetly before taking a chance and rushing at him. Solas did not retaliate with ice, flame, or Fade fist, however. He simply kept her following while walking backwards, his eyes on hers.

“A side-benefit of living as an apostate. I was given many opportunities to practice avoiding over-bearing and brutish thugs.”

Vinya snorted, rushed again, clashed shield against shield, and was so close she could count the stars of certainty sparking in Solas’s eyes.

“Over-bearing and brutish has its side-benefits, too,” she grinned before slamming as much force into him as possible. It sent Solas sprawling onto his back, but a curious blend of his quick legs and her own guilty shock distracted her long enough to allow him time to get up. He _was_ an apostate, after all; and a mage, and a scholar. Vinya knew she was impaired by the alcohol, and that it would be easy to seriously hurt Solas’s soft, towering frame so accustomed to leaning over his desk while leafing through texts.

“Yes, I imagine that is true,” Solas said when he was back on his feet. “For example: a straight-forwardness that a lack of subtly facilitates. The ability to never become lost – one need only to follow the trail of bodies home.”

“That was _one_ _time_ ,” Vinya frowned incredulously, easing off and putting a few more feet between them. Their conversation had turned telling of the man’s opinion, and if she wasn’t careful, it would also tell of her losing this round. “The Hinterlands were nothing but hills and more hills, and you weren’t exactly helpful.”

“Call it resourcefulness, then,” he suggested while coming in closer. Solas knew exactly why Vinya had moved off, and followed up with a flash of flame which the warrior barely deflected.

Trying to get to his unguarded back, the Inquisitor hurried around him, but before she could even attempt a strike, Solas employed a blast of force to toss her off. Surprised and frustrated by his bag of tricks, Vinya huffed. “I’d take that as a compliment if you hadn’t also just said I lacked subtlety.”

“It was no compliment. Merely a statement of fact. You _are_ resourceful, Inquisitor.”

“Flatterer,” smirked Vinya. She let both her arms fall loosely, hoping to goad him into another move. “I’m surprised your list didn’t include my muscles. You seemed so fond of them once.”

His first starting to furl with green Fade-light dimmed, and Solas’s eyes snapped towards hers. His face was washed in surprise at the pique of his brow, while a flustered blush of melancholy bloomed at his cheeks. But outlining the variegated emotion there was tenderness. It wasn’t quite at his eyes –which rather far away– but it was near; near those orbs like morning-sky clouds. A soberer (or less distracted) mind might have considered the expression, but, of course, Vinya had to take a shot. She got him right in the stomach. Solas simply continued looking stunned.

He waited for her to down her drink, and then they began to dance once more. Despite this easy acceptance, Solas was clearly rattled. From her comment? From the fact that Vinya was now scoring hits left, right, and down the middle? Every time she managed to by-pass his shield and land a blow, the apostate pouted, but it wasn’t quite out of anger. The little pursing of his pink, plump lips had the Inquisitor convinced that _he_ was convinced a come-back was inevitable. Which was charming. His confidence wasn’t rankled, and neither was it failing. By the time the elfmaid was making her way to her cup, swaying from many such trips, she was sure she was going to pass out before Solas actually lost.

“He’s a trooper,” Vinya slurred as she hauled her polished mug to her lips and slurped at the sweet ale. Bull was so mountainous standing there by the keg, and it occurred to the Inquisitor she should be suspicious of where he got the thing from in the first place. How did he manage it? Did Bull wrestle Cabot for the rights to his fair maiden brew? Did the Chargers cause a distraction while he snatched it up?

And Blackwall, well, he just looked burly in his thin, sweat-dampened under-tunic. _Burrrrly_. Burly and handsome.

“Should definitely going to bring Solas more often,” Vinya continued conversationally, voice hitching just a smidgeon as she licked her beer-tinged lips. “He’s not giving in, and I’m _way_ ahead of him. It’s kind of… I mean, he just doesn’t belly-up, ‘n he’s loosing _so_ bad. And I’m way ahead of him!”

“Andraste’s tits, girl.” Blackwall shook his head as though someone had told a bad joke, and there was a thick, pitying laugh coiling deep in his throat.

“No, really! It’s like… it’s like he’s kinda cocky. You know? _Ha_. But he’s only got me once! And it felt _weird_ with that barrier, lemme just say. All tingly and vibrating in my stomach…”

Bull’s sigh was more pitying than haughty. “No, Vin. He means… Look. Solas is letting you win.”

“Eh?”

Vinya twirled around on one foot to look at the apostate who was obviously doing nothing more than awaiting his inevitable doom.

“ ** _Why_**?”

“Two more drinks in you and you’re down, but you’ve still got five before this is over,” Bull explained. “He’ll win by default. You’ve got to be standing in the end, remember?”

Vinya whipped back in the Tal-Vashoth’s direction just long enough to blink stupidly. Returning a venomous eye towards the fighting area, she called out, “Solas?! You letting me win? So then but you win?”

Solas chuckled at the articulation, but that was it. No affirmation was forthcoming, and his offended, stunned denial had apparently also gotten lost, too. Which could only mean one thing: it was most certainly true.

Things happened quickly after that. Words were yelled (“I’m not playing with you anymore!”), dirt was flopped into (Vinya had been aiming for the grass), and now a very tall, bald elf with exceptional cheekbones (like rolling hills dipping down to the ravine of his jaw) was asking an insidious question about the hidden tower she’d gone to look for earlier that day.

“Wait. You’re… wait. What?”

Heaving up into a sitting position, she peered at Solas. There was light clashing of swords in the distance, and the woman squinched her face. It felt as though she had been laying there for years. “How long have you been talking?”

Enveloped in the warm air, sitting cross-legged and still holding his beer, the apostate tilted his head. “I’ve said nothing. I _asked_ if you went in search of the spot I mentioned during our conversation this morning.”

If Solas’s face _was_ sloping hills and a generous ravine, then Vinya felt she was standing on a precipice as she looked at him. His inquiry was something leading and dark, and the thought of it at her back while he was before her made the woman want to jump. If she answered truthfully –made a complete honest narrative of her actions– then it would seem her decision had been made: Solas would be the one she would tell about the letters. Solas would be the one she informed of everything going on, and Solas would be the one she warned about the creator of Corypheus’s orb. Considering his interest in the artifact, the choice seemed almost obvious. Perfect, really. Just like those fucking cheek bones.

“Solas, are—” Now all she had to do was figure out which of the three swaying elves to speak to. “—mad at me?”

“Why would I be, Inquisitor? Because you proved a sore loser? Or that I allowed deception rather than skill to bring me victory?”

Vinya mulled over every word, let them sink in, laughed a little, and jostled against his shoulder. A shoulder which she found very comfortable, and lingered against.

“You did let me win all those hits,” she grinned lopsidedly.

The apostate stiffened his posture and looked out to where the other two were sparring. “I did.”

“That’s…” Vinya sighed and pulled away from leaning on him. “I mean, that’s alright. That’s, like… _such_ a Bull thing. He’s all smart, and uses… does… like that. Both you guys are so smart. Way smarter than me. And **_I’m_** supposed to save the world against Corypheus and his friggin’ orb? Halla piss. What idiot thought that bright idea? Oh, right: _me_.”

The ridiculousness of it swirled in her already dizzy mind. It felt as though her head would spin right off into the early evening stars, but resting it on Solas’s shoulder again proved rather stabilizing.

_And comfy. And warm. Nice and comfy warm._

She wasn’t so beyond herself with drink that she was unaware of what she was doing. Vinya often pillowed her heavy, intoxicated head upon Blackwall’s shoulder, or Bull’s arm, and all she wanted was for Solas to feel like part of the group. What better initiation was there than an unapologetic breach of private space? That was why she’d brought him along, after all: to make her new friend feel welcomed, show the others how fun he could be, and express to Solas—

But no. That wasn’t quite right. And now Vinya was rather fixated on the idea of diving into her breast band to pull out the letter because its corners were itching mercilessly at her tits. She was going to tell him, anyways. Why not shove it right in his face?

“Solas…” she called to him from her perch, twisting her head a little to look up.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” he answered, eyes falling in her direction curiously.

“Soooolassssss…”

Vinya prefaced her confession by considering every letter of his name, wondering where they came from, and realizing she knew not whether mother nor father had decided on such a prophetic title for their little boy who clearly understand both the pitfalls and perks of pride. Before she went on to the truth, Vinya tasted the name and asked herself what it reminded her of. Sour words once exchanged regarding her Dalish heritage? Bitter quips about the woman’s distrust of magic? Or was it as sweet as blooming friendship and Orlesian cakes shared quickly before Sera had come and dragged her off during Empress Celene’s ball? _Oh, that hat_. How she’d tried to playfully pluck it from his head while he laughingly pushed her away, just as tipsy on expensive drinks as she…

“Solllllaaaas… “

Beer. It tasted like beer. And the salt of sweat on her lips, and vanilla custard.

“What is it, Vinya?”

The woman giggled. “Sssssss—“

“ _Lethallan_.”

“Mmm.” Satisfied, Vinya sighed and closed her eyes. “I went to the tower place, Solas. And I found a thing.”

The apostate sounded intrigued, and not in the least bit annoyed. For a second, his head accidently rested on hers as his posture relaxed. “I’d wondered if you’d went. And what did you discover when you should have been comfortably tucked up in— Cole. This is a surprise.”

“Tucked up in Cole?”

Opening her bleary eyes, Vinya saw the spirit’s visage at an odd, tilty angle, along with the ground, trees, and castle. Why wasn’t the rest of the world on Solas’s shoulders, too? Then it would be all even. And not spinning. And warm. _Comfy warm_ …

The contrast from the dark of her closed lids to images of the real world was a little startling, and very disorienting. It shocked her system like a jolt of lightning to her stomach. Nausea bubbled underneath while Vinya eyed the man in front of them. The feeling was nearly as unsettling as Cole’s large, strange hat. It made him look like he should be stuck out in a field to scare off birds. Of course, his hat was nowhere near as off-putting as his words.

“Clashing, curt: words meant to hurt, but they’re kind; cut away the old armor; old arguments. She finds a friend in the Fade; a home in a haven. Sweet-talker, she wants to say, but it gets lost. Now it’s found again, but she’s afraid. Afraid of puking on your feet. She should lie down.”

“The Inquisitor?”

_That is **so** true. I don’t want to puke on his feet! Do I need to puke? Maybe…?_

Cole’s words were wrapping her up in comfortable, quilty confusion, but it could have been Solas’s thick arms pulling her to her feet. Vinya tugged away, annoyed at both the intrusion and assumption that her legs were jelly (when, in fact, they were much more like a sturdy and entirely stable pudding).

It had taken an evening of full, frothy beer tankards –plus a whole minuet of summoning her courage– to decide to tell the apostate the breadth of her woes. It had taken what felt like even longer just to get Solas’s name off her tongue. Could Cole possibly understand how much effort she was going to have to throw into explaining everything else? How many wild gesticulations of her arms would be needed to illustrate her confusion over these letters? How raised and angry her voice was going to have to get as she explained that, apparently, there were enemy spies all over Skyhold, waiting for her to slip her secret? Did Cole have any idea—

“Dread Wolf’s dangle berries… _Cole_!”

Cole already knew. He **_knew_**. His youthful face with its borrowed gaze knew exactly all those things Vinya was keeping close to her heart, though they were trying to work their way out through her mouth. Instead she burped, and more forcefully pulled away from Solas’s arms keeping her upright.

“Is good, Solas. Really, is good. I can…”

But she couldn’t. Oh, she was _drunk_. Pulling away just had her careening back into Solas’s side while gravity grabbed for her legs. Letting herself be guided along, they made their way towards Skyhold, Cole trailing not far behind. Worrying about trusting the spirit with this information was an issue for another day. For now, Vinya just giggled over the coincidence of Cole’s timely intervention as she leaned into Solas’s hold on her, and the three of them climbed to the castle.


	7. Chapter 7

The assault was brutal. Raining down on her rigid form, the strikes and blows to her head and stomach came relentlessly. Her skull could have cracked from the pressure. Nausea bubbled thick in the throat; receded like the tide. It threatened to swell once more, and so, braving the onslaught, Vinya flung herself from the fetal position she was huddled in.

The pounding at her temples only increased. A new sweat broke out, and she was already soaked from the heat of the hour. This was the end. She was _dying_. It was—

“Sera,” rasped the elf, voice weak with defeat, “why. Are those curtains. Open?!”

Without a doubt, it was a hang-over for the records.

_Elgar’nan, Mythal, and the halla- humping one, I am never drinking again._

She felt spent. She felt like some sort of implement employed for a purpose, strained to its limits, then tossed away. It was what usually came after a battle when Vinya hadn’t stretched before hand, or seen action in a couple of weeks. Worst of all was the pain at her lower back –from tensing, she was sure. The Inquisitor had tried so hard to keep solid and controlled, but then… beer. Too much beer. And Bull, and Blackwall, and S…

“Sera?”

The Inquisitor opened her eyes wearily. She expected to see lively lilac curtains of brocade, whose golden tassels fluttered like butterflies when the windows were open to let the air in, but they were gone. And neither could she see the grain of wood-planks that served as the low ceiling. The familiar scratch of woven wool carpet beneath her arms was absent, too. Instead, Vinya noted silk sheets, sensed the vaulted roof, and knew by the lack of cozy, cloistering walls that she was in her own quarters rather than Sera’s cheerful abode.

She should have realized sooner. She should have realized by the scent. Sera’s room smelled like sunshine, though not in a strictly poetic sense. Summer mornings were warm in Skyhold, and the lush heat coaxed moist perfumes from the potted, hanging plants. There were little sprigs of verbena, the winding vines of arbor blessing, vibrant morning glory, and prophet’s laurel that glowed like fireflies. All threw off a lovely, verdant aroma that lingered with the heat.

But despite the current humidity, Vinya could only smell the laundry beneath: four-day-old linen, ancient lavender bundles, and something acrid to aid with bedbugs. Because she was in her own room. By herself.   _Alone_.

“No?”

The woman startled and almost screamed as she sat straight up. Settled at the end of the bed was Cole.

“Why now? Why her? Why _him_? Arse-bucket, bugger, piss; Andraste stuff the lot of them. But no, but not— _her_. Head so full: feeling; fearing. Something’s wrong with me, yeah? No. Something’s wrong with her: _The Herald_.” Cole’s brows knitted together. “You don’t want me to find her, do you? She’s very… cranky in the morning.”

Having caught her breath, Vinya was massaging her pounding head and wincing in the spirit’s direction. From the pain; from the strangeness of having him there: each were equally likely. The last time she’d awoken to find him in her room, Cole had been muttering something about ‘a different nose’ while fiddling with her hairbrush, entranced by the few tresses still stuck in the bristles.

She liked Cole, though. Rarely did she delve _too_ deeply into her feelings towards him. Demon? Spirit? Boy? Who could say? Sera, Solas, and Varric all had thoughts on the matter, but Vinya only saw the someone who had guided her and saved her from Envy. Obviously every time he opened his mouth she was reminded that it wasn’t so simple, but why could he not be but a tall, blonde, quirky boy with no ambition beyond helping others?

“Is she really that pissed off?” she asked.

Cole blinked. His liquid gaze, coloured like ice but lacking the chill, looked off and out the windows, and Vinya knew he could never be ‘just a boy’.

“She’s afraid. That makes her angry. She’s afraid of losing you. And afraid of _losing_ you. First, she wanted normal, but now she likes strange. Sera thought she only had to worry about Corypheus, and now she has to worry about Solas, too. Both of them could take you, and that makes her afraid. She doesn’t like being afraid.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Or cookies. She doesn’t like cookies.”

The Inquisitor smiled inside. If anyone had to know of whence came the fuel that lit the flame under the butt of Sera’s frustrations, Vinya was glad that it was Compassion.

And she could smell the damp of old roof shingles, now, if she tried: feel them hard beneath her; see the younger elf struggling to explain that it wasn’t about baked goods but, rather, the two of them spending time together.

This had been months ago: a late afternoon sky, Cullen running the troops through a drill, and plate of black-bottomed raisin cookies sitting between them. Cookies had been Sera’s means of opening up the conversation, but cookies would always leave a bitterness, no matter how much vanilla or sugar was stuffed into them. Might as well have spooned out and stirred in sad evenings of a little girl staring at her looking glass, wondering how much it would hurt to cut through the tips of her ugly, pointed ears so she could look _normal_.

Cookies were a relic of Lady Emmald. Cookies were cruel, prideful, and tasted like crap, anyways. So they’d found a new thing.

“I know Sera doesn’t like them. They remind her of— “

_‘So now you’re smashing back with Solas? That’s_ **our** _thing. Why are you doing_ **our** _thing with_ him _? You said you had Inquizzy shite to do, and… I can’t believe this, you!’_

The Inquisitor winced. It was a full-body affair: her hands fisted, teeth clenched, eyes sought of darkness of closing, but, oh, what Vinya suddenly remembered from the previous night was not sewing together any narrative she actually wanted to recall. There was Sera huffing off, although she hadn’t noticed. There was herself, ogling Solas’s legs (and arse, truth be told). There was Blackwall, looking gorgeous and _insinuating_ things. There had been… there had been… _oh, Gods, no_ , there had been…

“You didn’t tell him,” Cole assured her quietly, cracking through panicked thoughts. The elf stared at the spirit; tried to corroborate this against the blurry memory of being put into bed by big, insistent hands. The last night was a hazy mire through which she waded, trying desperately to keep her footing while clinging to –Solas’s arm? chest? – for stability as they…

_Climbed the steps to Skyhold. His arm around her waist, keeping her on her feet. His arm beneath her legs, carrying her fully up to her room. He smelled like… and she kept asking, loudly and brashly, if…_

But Cole had been there. Vinya remembered being angry because he kept rudely interrupting her while she tried so hard to convince Solas of something.

She believed him. She smiled at the beneficence which only a drunk mind would consider ‘rude’, for Cole had clearly saved her from her own stupidity a few times over.

“Thank the All Father,” Vinya sighed. “Or… you, am I right?”

And then the blood drained from the Inquisitor’s face.

“Oh, crap. _Cole_! That’s right! But then— you know. You **_know_** , don’t you?”

Jumping off the bed and pacing dramatically would have looked right and proper, given the situation. But that much movement was just not possible. So instead, Vinya sat there, gripped the covers until her knuckles were white, and started spewing her worries in an homage to her stomach’s desire to empty.

“Cole, I… _What is going on_?!” the woman pressed. “I mean… you’re a spirit, right? Can’t you— Who is leaving these notes? It’s not me! It can’t be! That doesn’t even— Is the Fade, or… someone using my hand to… I mean, that handwriting is mine. It is. But— And what about this second bloody bastard I’m supposed to be looking for? When are they going to make a move? I… And… Alright, so, the note says Corypheus is the priority, yes? But then why not warn me **after** he’s been defeated? I’m sure this other asshole isn’t going anywhere!”

During her panicked line of questioning, Cole had unfolded himself. He was now standing on the ground, fidgeting at the hands, and watching her growing helplessness with visible distress.

“No,” he said lightly; like it was a question. “And yes. From the Fade, yes. But from you, too. You in a mirror. Ripples, reflecting; rearranged. _Changed_. Words come to you from another world. But they are yours. Trust them. Follow them. You’re doing it right. Walk the trail and find the wolf’s den.”

She couldn’t walk anything at the moment. Crawling would have been a miracle, actually. Especially with her mind fumbling and falling over his words. The woman got caught on _ripples_ , all but tripped over _reflecting_ , and stumbled into _changed_. It pointed to the Well – Mythal’s Well.

The Inquisitor shivered. The Well had been an exhausting experience. Sera’s sensible assumptions about the place –that it was demonic instead of holy– never sat completely right with Vinya. Sera didn’t know what it was to have shimmering light react to her as though a friend while she waded in. Sera didn’t know the visions, and whispers. Sera didn’t see vallaslin in the mornings as she braided her hair to a rope of raven’s colouring, or believe in the All Mother. And Sera had never looked forward to feasts in winter named for Mythal, or bundled juniper, conifer, and ivy together for special offerings to the figurehead. She wasn’t Dalish and she didn’t understand.

That kind of thinking useless, as Vinya had learned in her time as Inquisitor. ‘Us’ and ‘them’ were ugly; harmful, really. But it was still true. Sera hated all things elven because a bitch had adopted her and swept vicious thoughts under the rug of her lovely blonde tresses. Vinya shared the younger elf’s distrust of demons, but what Vinya heard whispering in her head —particularly loudly as she tried to sleep, most nights— was definitely _not_ demons. It was something else. It **had** to be.

And now she knew what.

“The Well.” Vinya watched her Marked hand, not sparking or stinging for once. It was simply there, fingers flexing as she willed it, and it was hers. “Must be.”

There was more to be said. Concerning victory, or vindication. Any reservations left over from a doubtful youth of questioning the gods was melting away. It **was** Mythal she had met in Flemeth’s body. Those _were_ ancient elves who had guarded that temple. It was… a lot for a hung-over mind to take in, and Vinya tiredly closed her eyes.

Cole just looked at her. He said nothing to refute or agree. He simply watched.

“Thank you,” Vinya finally said warmly. “I needed all that off my chest. It’s been… frustrating. I’ve been so confused. And paranoid! You wouldn’t believe… Well. You helped. A lot.”

“Good,” Cole nodded. “I am… glad. Sometimes it’s hard to help you. So bright; birds against the sun. Light leaks from your hand, but you are anchored, not fixed. It must be hard to fly all the time.”

Vinya shrugged off the suggestion that she was good at what she did, for there was little she was less convinced of, and stood up with a bit of a wobble.

“So, what should I do now?”

“Go see Sera,” Cole suggested.

The elf’s brow went crooked after a little dance of surprise. “The… the note says I need to speak with Solas, though. Shouldn’t I… be doing that?”

“Yes, but Sera is thinking about feeding Leliana’s nugs a lot of fruit. And letting them loose in your room. I can’t help her with that.” The spirit pouted. “Poor nugs.”

“Oh. Oooooh. Oh, Sera.” Vinya grimaced. “And _ew_.”

The spirit disappeared as the Inquisitor went about getting dressed.

 

* * *

 

An unannounced, unapologetic, dismissive-of-the-last-few-days sort of announcement was probably not the best way to bound back into Sera’s life. The blonde was laying out on the cushioned benches of her quarters, pipe smoking and eyes reading something invisible scrawled across the ceiling, when the Inquisitor barged in without pre-amble.

“Pranks!”

Not the best way, no, but it was all Vinya had. Leaning against the doorframe, she watched Sera scrutinize the suggestion, cock a brow, and then sit up.

There was all that coziness previously expected of the room, plus lazy sunbeams licking paths of light across the floor and kissing the clutter. Scrolls, bottles, books, bones; it looked dangerously like an apothecary, and perhaps that wasn’t too far off. No one would suggest she was a wizard with her tempest brews (because she’d shove the compliment down your throat), but Sera _did_ have an awful lot on the subject. Like a connoisseur… But no. That implied taste – _cultivated_ taste– and it didn’t fit her flavor of unrefined, instinctive knowledge. ‘Collector’ seemed to fall short, as well, for its mental imagery of one seeking and yearning for new pieces. Sera didn’t **need**. Sera just _had_. But Sera would not have just as easily, if someone wanted something. She’d give it freely, offer before it was asked for, and indeed her horde shifted from week to week, as new came in and old went out.

All but her flasks, mixing apparati, and apron (which Dagna, the Arcanist, convinced her to start wearing) (and had made) (with enchantments). Those all stayed put in their places. Probably because no one required their use. Tomes, too, with gorgeous wood engravings, usually remained on the shelves until Vinya pulled them down to look over the pictures which animated all sorts of scenes: men and women bent over their braziers, clouds of smoke enveloping curious figures; means of measurement according to body parts. Not that Sera seemed to need books, practise, or hours of experiment. Bottling fire and ice came as naturally to her as the bow.

Less than natural was the current look of suspicion on her face.

“Wot? Really?” Sera’s slanted eyebrow was joined by the other, and now they accented big, blue eyes with arching surprise. Taking the pipe from between her lips, she let a pluming puff haze in the older woman’s direction. “Surprised you’re even standing after your night with that up-tight. Or did you borrow the stick from his pucker to keep yourself propped?”

Vinya snorted. “Well, I cleaned it first, but yeah.”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Ugh!”

Shaking her head, Vinya sat down, but the distance between grew longer as Sera scooted to give the Inquisitor more room. Once upon a time, the little shit would have sprawled out so that they had to tussle for Vinya to find a spot to sit. No longer was that the case, apparently.

“Why you puttin’ down if we’re gonna go prank?”

“I…” _Don’t know?_ It didn’t seem like there was much to say, but the icy looks and cold shoulders weren’t because of the mountain weather. “Shouldn’t we talk? I know you’ve been worried about me. Blackwall gave me crap last night about it, and I— “

Sera was smirking. Not with joy – she wasn’t entertained by the confession. But her lips were pulled towards a knowing slant which rather confused present company. “He did, did he?” She got to her bare feet and slipped into her black shoes. “Look, we can talk, but what’s talk for? Nobles and knobs too lazy to _do_. You were doin’ alright when you suggested we go play, Inquisitor. Why ruin it?”

“I…” _Fair point_. “Alright. Pranks, then. Right now. Let’s go.”

Sera smiled big and went about butting out her smoke. Night had become day; her tone turned completely around. “Grand! What we talking? Pies? Something sticky? Something itchy? Crawly?”

Vinya blinked. She couldn’t believe it. Considering Cole’s warning, the woman had expected Sera to be a lot more bristle and a lot less good humour. She’d underestimated her friend, as it turned out. Sera’s list of suggestions promised a lot of belly-laughter, accidental snorting, and sniggering as all was forgiven.

Between them, of course. _Someone_ was going to be having a bad day. But it would not be the two elves, no matter the Herald’s very divine-sized hang-over.

“Lady’s choice,” Vinya offered with the faux grace of a chevalier as the two walked out and towards the stairs, Sera taking a slight lead.

“That’s neither of us, then,” the blonde predictably pointed out. Her face was very animated as she considered options. “I’m thinking itchy. Nettles, needles; that red one that gets a person all lumps and… ugh. _Weepy_.”

“Really?” Surprised at such wrath, Vinya’s mouth went ajar.

“Yeah. Just sort of… like, nothing too nasty. Stick it in a chair or something? In their seat!” Inspiration had struck. A work of art lay in wait, by the look bejewelling Sera’s eyes. “It’ll be… Wait for it…” She wiggled her brow, and started giggling to the point where she nearly couldn’t get the punch-line out. “A pain in the butt! Geddit? _A pain in the butt!_ Because… in their chair? And they sit, and _—_ ”

Vinya groaned. She couldn’t help her own bout of chuckles, though. “That’s terrible. And hilarious. Mostly terrible.”

Sera was actually holding her sides as they left the oppressive air of the tavern. “I know, right? Just thought it now, too! Classic.”

By the time the cool air was tickling their ear tips, and the door to the Herald’s Rest was shut behind them, Vinya had committed to the idea. With mage-healers, tonics, and medicines at everyone’s disposal –and knowing that Sera would never go after someone without the means of attaining these things– the Inquisitor was sure that whoever was hit would be able to find quick relief and come away hardly scathed. This was more about fixing things with Sera, after all. _For_ Sera.

And as the blonde delved into her reasoning for their future victim, it was clear she deserved it.

“It’s gotta be someone who pops a squat in the same place, yeah? Everyday, and just them. Don’t want to screw some stable-hand lookin’ for a sit between shit-shovelling. And it should be someone who’ll have workers stitchin’ if they see ‘em scratchin’ arse all day. Someone who acts all books and brain, but ain’t better?”

Somehow Vinya missed the obvious choice. Instead, her stomach flip-flopped at the thought of tangling with Dorian, though hitting him _was_ somehow more noble than going after a man or woman lower on the pecking order of the Inquisition’s people.

Although it was true that pranking the mage might make some people happy, Vinya would rather have left him alone. As “The Vint”, he got a lot of flack already. As “The Vint”, he had suffered ridicule, slander, gossip, as well as stunts perpetrated in the spirit of spite, which wasn’t why Sera did it.

Dorian didn’t need more unkindness, though his silks and airs made him a prime target for pies. And neither did he need more problems pushing a bottle of wine in his direction. Dorian didn’t need—

Against the backdrop of Skyhold getting closer and closer, Sera was watching her. _Waiting_. And somehow – **somehow** – it was still going over the Inquisitor’s head. The staring seemed innocent, if not a little off-putting, but it wasn’t anything suspicious. That is, until the Red Jenny rogue suggested she knew just the person – _“Pardon me… apostate”_ – asking for a good lark.

“Oh, Sera,” sighed Vinya heavily. As it turned out, she’d neither over or underestimated the woman. She’d estimated Sera just right. So they made their way towards the rotunda.


	8. Chapter 8

It hazed over her as it had before: that nutty smell of acorn-gathering, early spring; gods. While breathing greedily, she lingered in the dark of her memories, and it was a darkness of hiding behind closed eyelids as elders made their petitions to the All-Father. In that dark, as a child, promises of playing and sweet things had waited. It had always been a comfort. That darkness had been more reliable than light.

Weird how smoked-out incense could do that.

To be in Solas’s room, smell that oh-so specific smell, and recall rites to the Creators seemed wrong given his trepidation towards the Dalish. To be in his room at all seemed wrong, mostly because the man’s angry-face was without peer, but Vinya was on a mission, and she would have to brave his ire-ridden brow.

Her task wasn’t to admire the fastidiousness of his kept books and belongings. Nor was it to hover curious fingers over worked metal wrought to strange shapes, which, she assumed, were for magey purposes.

(After all, the things were admitting a vague hum – _magical indeed_.)

Her –or rather, _their_ – mission had a lot more to do with a burlap sack stuck out at odd angles for what was held within.

“This is… The original plan was brilliant, don’t get me wrong,” Vinya said while shoving all manner of greenery into the mattress whose goose-down innards were laid bare. As needles and nettles were pulled from the sack, its bulky shape was lost. “But this… Is it going to have the same effect?”

“Sure!” Sera insisted as she mixed up the feathers and foliage with gusto and gloved hands. “He’ll be itchin’ arse; servants’ll have a laugh.”

Vinya smirked. “I think he’ll be itching everywhere, actually.”

Then she sighed. She felt maybe, possibly, and definitely a little (and very) guilty.

Solas’s chair in the rotunda had been the original target for their prank. But his butt had been rather planted in it, so they’d gone after the next best thing according to Sera: Solas’s bed. To fill his mattress with rash-inducing shrubbery seemed far more vindictive than a couple of poison-oak clusters stuck in his seat, and the Inquisitor was starting to wonder if this was too cruel. Her tightening chest certainly suggested as much.

Added to this, Vinya still had a lingering horror from learning that Sera even knew where Solas’s room was. When questioned, Sera had simply giggled around the word ‘lizards’ as they navigated the halls to seek where the apostate slept. And what a room in which to dream! Small, but cozy, with plastered walls, that lovely incense smell, a little window to let light in, and books, books; books. His wolf pelt, which Solas wore while journeying outside Skyhold, hung on the headboard of his bed rather perfectly, for the tucked-away room was so reminiscent of a creature’s den.

From deep within the bag of hastily-gathered goodies, Vinya plucked a voluminous flower that had been grabbed willy-nilly along with the rest. She gazed at the flora whose petals looked like a sunset –brilliant orange softening to white like the sky lost to clouds– before throwing it in with the rest.

“I mean, it’s just going to look like he’s got fleas or something,” Vinya said off-handedly.

“Just as well,” Sera shrugged. The playful glint in her eyes steeled. “Servants got ‘em. Stable-hands got ‘em. Them poor sods in the tents got no where else to be? Got ‘em, too. Elfy’ll look like the rest of us: miserable and scratchy. And the servants can stop starin’ at the cobble and start lookin’ straight when they take him all his friggin’ books. Not right that they got their noses to the ground – he’s not better than them.”

Sera was so transparent. As see-through as a glass of water, or a free-flowing river. Both of which were as refreshing as her unpresuming personality. But, unpresuming though she was, Sera assumed a lot, and she assumed a lot about Solas most of all. Vinya remembered what that was like: seeing so much pompousness in his quiet, judging demeanour.

“I know,” Vinya nodded. She pulled out another poor flower which had been uprooted with the nettles. It was purple. “He isn’t better. Solas is as stupid and normal as the rest of us.”

“' _Normal'_ , right,” Sera sputtered. When she looked at Vinya, however, she made an apologetic pull of her lips. “I mean; I guess he was a normal’s bit bitchy from being in bits this morning. So that’s... something. Heard from Beardy he can put a lot back, yeah?”

_‘Fine – we can talk about last night,’_ was what Vinya heard in Sera’s surrendering tone. She finally felt the flooding relief of forgiveness.

“Yeah,” the woman nodded, grinning. “A lot. Like… a lot of a lot.”

So they talked about the drinking game. Sera mentioned Solas’s questionable tactics, and Vinya reminded her that Bull pulled the same kind of crap all the time. Sera made lude suggestions when Vinya recalled (hazily) that Solas had carried her up to bed, but Vinya said it was no different than when Blackwall did the same.

(Sera, knowing their history, had looked rather miffed at that.)

And, finally, as the two left Solas’s room (which looked no more pranked-upon than when they’d entered), Sera thanked Vinya for coming out the night before, and the morning present, and for pretending like she didn’t have a hang-over the size of a friggin’ ogre’s arse.

That made Vinya laugh. Still giggling, she jostled against Sera’s arm as they walked towards the main of Skyhold. Because it had been hours since the Inquisitor had thought about mysterious clues, Corypheus, his orb, and everything going on, and it was because of Sera, and Vinya loved the girl. Vinya was glad she’d spent the morning with her friend. Despite the pounding in her head, she felt she could think straighter than she had in days. And she was more than ready to deal with the fallout of her actions when Solas got red-eared and angry from being red-assed and itchy due to their little prank.

Except that when Vinya saw Solas next, he wasn’t scratching.

The rotunda was lively with light. Veilfire and flames from new candles mingled so that there was no shadow cast in any part of the room. Solas had flowers in an earthenware vase, as rustic as it was red. The attention given to them made it look like they were a gift from a lover, and no eye could possibly miss these additions amongst the clutter of his desk.

“Good afternoon, Inquisitor,” Solas greeted from his seat.

The woman stared. With all the force of being smacked upside the head, the blooms were recognized. They’d come from the garden along with the nettles. Vinya had personally put them into Solas’s mattress. And by the apostate's expression, he knew it.

“I… Uh…"

Coy interest sparked in his stare. Solas's brow arched waitingly as his eyes moved over Vinya's face once; twice. Then he gathered from her horror _–_ just as she had gathered the flowers _–_ the measure of her wrong-doing. And he smirked.

But Solas was left wanting of a guilty response. With all the sweet relief of coincidence, Bull appeared seconds before Vinya had been about to dramatically give herself up.

“Boss, hey! How’s it hang— “

Vinya startled like she'd been struck by lightning. She had never been so grateful to see him. “Oh, thank the friggin' Creators!”

She was far less grateful for Solas’s chair-legs scraping against the stone. As the man approached, Vinya kept her attention unblinkingly on the newly-arrived Tal-Vashoth who noticed right away.

“…ing. _Huh_.” He looked between them. “Everything good in here?”

“Yeah!” Vinya nodded and tucked some stray hair behind her ear. “Just… yeah.”

“Of course.” Solas nodded as well. “The Inquisitor was simply… saying hello, I expect.”

“Uh-huh.” Bull folded his arms. His eye lustred with scrutiny. “From the looks of things, you two had a late night last night.”

“Phft.” Vinya snorted at the man’s feigned ignorance. Distracted by the challenge in his words, she couldn't help but blurt out, “wouldn’t have been so bad if you'd beaten one _easy_ little mage,” to which she winced inwardly. Provoking Solas wasn’t a good plan. But there she was, poking him towards a confrontation.

Solas did not react beyond a subtle grin, though. Bull just shrugged. After which his face split into a generous smile. His pointed canine-teeth shone in the veilfire.

“Solas has moves. Besides, last night was about blowing off steam. And I take it from the awkwardness, there was a little blowing _and_ some steam.”

Vinya’s jaw dropped. Solas chortled thickly, but he stopped it abruptly with a cough.

“No more of either than what was shared between you and Blackwall,” he said after composing himself. “Save when Vinya stormed off with steam all but pouring from her ears. Because I had won.”

“Because you _cheated_ ,” Vinya pouted cheekily. His mood was encouraging, so she made a face. Solas laughed before turning to the Iron Bull. It was taken as a good sign that he was changing the subject, so certain parties guilty of unspecified, flowery pranks finally began to relax.

“You were here to see the Inquisitor?”

“I was looking for you, actually,” Bull answered the man. “Krem and the gang just got back from down south. They brought some things I think your Orlesian friend would like to take a look at. Thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

Solas bowed his head. “I appreciate the thought. The Chargers have taken the lot to Ormel?”

“Mm. It’s all there.” Bull turned to Vinya. “And Krem has his report ready, as usual.”

He winked. It was an exaggerated and silly thing when the Iron Bull winked. His brow wiggled, lip twitched, and it became a sarcastic ‘come-hither’ situation, which, combined with the eye-patch and leering quality, made the whole act hilarious. It was one of his many charms; this charismatic absurdity.

Vinya didn't laugh, though. Krem’s "report" was to be found at the bottom of an ale-tankard, and she didn’t feel like drinking. Not at all.

“I’m… not sure, Bull,” Vinya grimaced. “I know you got _your_ ass handed to you last night, but I didn’t. I feel like I could drown a fish with how much I drank. My head is— “

“Then go get some of the red stuff in you and meet us over there,” Bull suggested with a jut of his chin.

So simple a solution had been sought before. It seemed Vinya drank more healing potions while hung-over than on the battlefield. But she was _tired_ ; taut and tense like she'd been tracking prey while a cold wind set into her joints. Plus she had a job to do.

“I will,” Vinya replied. “But… I’ll go— “ _hide in a dark corner_ ”—check out this stuff first.”

Solas right sounded surprised.

“This is scholar’s work, Inquisitor. There will be hours of referencing texts; sorting items. Would you truly prefer this to the Herald’s Rest?”

Vinya swallowed. She'd have preferred absolutely nothing to a short respite atop the covers of her bed. But, with their leaving for the Arbor Wilds soon, she also felt time was running out to discover the next clue. She needed five minuets to ask Solas who they had first saved as the Inquisition. After all, **that** was why she'd asked him along the night before. And she could certainly do that _and_ hide in a dark corner while in the study of Ormel, Skyhold’s ancient elvhen scholar.

Not that she could allow her true motives to be discerned.

“It’ll save me having to read a report which I won’t understand,” Vinya answered nonchalantly. She grinned friendly and fully in Bull’s direction. “I can get down to the tavern later.”

“Sounds good,” Bull said. His mountainous form was followed by the elves’ eyes as they watched him turn to go. However, before exiting, he tilted his head and looked back over his shoulder.

“Nice flowers you got there, Solas.” Bull was sincere; earnest. “They’re pretty. Really helps to down-play the doom- gloom-and-demons thing you’ve got going on in here.”

Vinya couldn't breathe.

“Thank-you, Bull,” Solas answered eagerly. “They were left by— Well. The flowers’ intentions speak for themselves.”

Bull winked and showed himself out. After which those left exchanged looks.

“Shall we?” Solas offered.

Humming, and laughing oddly, Vinya unbuttoned the first two clasps of her tunic. It was a hot afternoon. It left her breathless in a way that the sweltering, boiling, tumultuous guilt did not. _Or, wait… Nope, it’s the guilt._ “What do you mean by the, uh… ‘flowers’ intentions’?”

Solas shrugged and stared off pensively. “Larkspur for late-blooming love. Lilium means affection from afar. I believe one of the maids to be infatuated. It is flattering, of course – but nothing will come of it.”

_Shit_. All those looks Vinya had interpreted as knowing had actually been glowing hopefulness. That waiting, smiling way in which he'd watched her? Solas had been wondering who it was.

The look of love had looked good on him, but this was far worse than Vinya's intentions. Rather than owning up, however, she merely chose to lead the way out, though she was certainly walking on tip-toe as though wading over eggshells. If she brought him some custard later when she confessed, perhaps Solas would be less disappointed.

Shadows lengthened as sunless corridors called them to a tower, lonely and silent, off the gardens. Vinya knew of Ormel's room by reputation. It was a large, windowless expanse made small for its accumulated items, all of which were elvhen relics collected by the Inquisition – sometimes by scouts; sometimes by Vinya’s personal party.

She understood none of it. All of the pieces sitting upon desks, tables, or special pedestals looked more foreign than familiar, despite that they were supposed to have belonged to her people. Dorian had talked excitedly of the artifacts some months ago, when the collection began to have a reputation, but only Bull had been able to pretend to be interested, and even then he hadn’t tried particularly hard.

It had a lot to do with Ormel. The man had been born a proud Dalish, so he looked down on anyone considered a shem. But he’d been educated in Orlais. Hence the accent, dramatic airs, and an uppity demeanor. He also cared very little for anything outside his studies of ancient elvhen culture, and was not above using magic to get one’s attention. A little zap; a little fire under the arse – apparently he’d once burnt a hole right through the trousers of a kitchen boy bringing him repast. It sounded like a rumour, but it also sounded plausible, so generally no one went near Ormel’s room if they didn’t have business. No one went to look at or admire the curious collection of artifacts. And no one had kindness to spare for the elvhen scholar.

Except Solas.

“You've new acquisitions, I hear,” said the apostate conversationally as he followed Vinya into the room. Ormel, who had a long table bare of anything save one trunk, twirled around. The light in his eyes shifted when he saw Vinya at Solas’s side, but, like any Orlesian, he was practised at saving face.

“Salutations, Inquisitor!” Ormel sang sweetly. “It is a surprise seeing you here. But a pleasure.”

“She wishes to observe. With your permission, of course.” Solas sounded as humble as Vinya had ever heard him.

“And here I remember a conversation where _you_ claimed our intrepid Dalish Inquisitor would never show an interest in her heritage.” Ormel made an exaggerated sound with his tongue. “I told you she would come around.”

Vinya didn’t think the conversation had happened exactly so, but Solas did not refute it.

The hour that followed was warm, and drowsy.  It lengthened immeasurably by the fact that Vinya’s brain felt like it was being prodded – both from her hang-over, and from what was, essentially, the confusing, foreign tongue in which the two intellectuals yammered.

As Solas and Ormel took items from the trunks brought by the Chargers, it was the latter whose voice made up the bulk of the conversation. Ormel occasionally hazarded guesses as to what some of the objects were for, while otherwise he showed off what he knew in long, nigh-unending dialogues. Solas interjected sometimes, softly, and politely, and books were pulled off shelves and perused. Eventually Ormel’s help brought in brushes, little picks, and started at their menial task of cleaning artifacts while Vinya watched.

She wasn't patient. Waiting for an opening to slip casually into conversation with Solas seemed as fruitful as praying to the lost gods. So she considered the varying vallaslin and matching robes of Ormel's lackeys. She enjoyed the excessive warmth and dull, brown light of the candles. And she was very nearly snoring in her spot when the head scholar started sighing ecstatically upon opening a new trunk.

“This!” Ormel gasped. The cracking of wood and rattling of hinges squealed through Vinya’s ears. “Look at this collection, Solas. What do you make of these? The stones… And the engravings on this amulet… Exquisite! And all remarkably dry, as well.”

Solas walked from the book he’d been bent over. Glancing from her snuggly nest amid tall, velvet chair-arms, Vinya saw the man’s eyes flicker over a necklace, rings, and a long cut of linen. She soon joined the debating scholars on legs as heavy as lead.

“Perhaps they belonged to a priest,” Ormel suggested, as was his wont: it was all religious, in his eyes.

“I see no suggestion of ceremony,” said Solas. His words were scrutinizing, yet his tone heartfelt. “No superfluous splendor; no imagery associated with relevant gods. How came you to this conclusion?”

Ormel smirked. “But you miss the make of the baubles! These stones have been associated with June. Particularly when paired with gold. A reflection of his association with wealth, of course. I would not be surprised to find—ah-ha! Ironbark. Ironbark _beads_!” Ormel looked like he was ready to faint. He moved in closer, just as Vinya pressed in beside Solas. “Never have I seen this before. Ironbark crafted for something other than utility!”

The beads were polished. They had a sheen that suggested silver, but the woodgrain made it unmistakable. Numbering in the hundreds, the spots of grey-blue were sewn into the front of the linen, and caught and carried the candlelight like little stars.

“That would imply an abundant supply,” said Solas, dipping in a little nearer the garment.

Ormel became intrigued. His ears practically twitched in tandem with the wheels of his mind, now spinning faster. “Yes. I thought, perhaps, because of its value, this may have belonged to someone of great esteem. But you could be correct. Ironbark could have grown in greater quantity in the past. And it is so scarce now.” His mournful tone suddenly turned around. “Imagine! Inquisitor, might I requisition some men to survey the area? We may find access to an ancient grove of ironbark.”

Stirred from her staring, Vinya’s heart thrummed. Ironbark was treasured by her clan (and every other clan) because of its ties to tradition. To think that there might be a large supply had her mind racing to her writing table so that she could contact the Keeper of Lavellan and say where it was. The clan was having trouble lately – travelling to the Dales could be the boon they required.

Not that Vinya _would_ , of course. It was impractical and dishonest. But she really wanted to. Her thoughts and heart went to her clan often, but her feet stayed put. At least for now.

Her hand, however, had its own ideas.

“Inquisitor?”

Vinya heard Solas inquiring, but she kept reaching for the ring settled amongst the varied items. It looked dull in comparison to the bejeweled amulet and once-luxurious robe. But she liked it. Its make was simple, and the way its engraved writing caught the candlelight was very pretty. Romantic, really, considering its origins.

“Humble, isn’t it?” Ormel remarked. “Out of place, it would seem.”

“I guess,” Vinya shrugged. She looked at Solas. Just as she would have, had they been out in the field. “I don’t know; maybe its a clue. I mean… all this fancy stuff found together. It could have been for the clan’s bonding rituals. If their rituals were anything like ours.”

Solas, with his hands tucked in behind himself, bent in closer. Vinya watched his eyes move along the inscription once, then again, and a small smile flowered at his lips. From this close, the woman could see his eyes were not simply blue-grey. There was a ring of pure purple near the pupil almost like her own.

“Perhaps its inclusion in the collection is not so curious,” Solas said, trading a look with her. The woman smiled back. This wasn’t her area of expertise. It wasn’t even her area of vague understanding. And here she was, giving advice to a renown scholar and Solas, Skyhold’s head know-it-all.

She was, without question, absolutely _killing_ it as Inquisitor today.

Whereas Ormel, apparently, was having an off-day. Though his eyes flitted over the lettering, he still did not understand.

“What do you mean?” came his hesitant question.

Vinya handed the ring over. The scholar scrutinized the writing at length. Finally, he paled.

“I am not… familiar with every word here. Something of betrothal?”

Vinya’s jaw dropped. “ _You_ can’t read it?” She flushed with confusion. “But... You’re… This is _your_ thing. _You’re_ the ancient elvhen expert. You’re _Skyhold’s_ ancient elvhen expert! I don’t know ancient elvhen from Orlesian!”

Before Ormel could stutter incredulously, Solas stepped in.

“It is the Well, Ormel. The _vir_ ' _abelasan_ has, in the past, allowed Vinya some insight into the language.” Solas looked at her warningly. “Insight which has largely been lost.”

“Ah.”

“Oh. _Oh!”_

Where Ormel sounded curt, Vinya gasped in surprise.

“I forgot about that,” she admitted quietly.

“It is remarkable,” Ormel said. He was no longer haughty. In fact, there was no tone whatsoever to his words. “What does it say?”

Solas motioned for Vinya to answer. She took the ring back, and read.

“ _’Bride: may our love burn brighter than the…_ Orb _?_ ” Vinya bit her bottom lip before continuing. “Um… _Than the orb cast down by Elgar’nan_.”

“Hm.” Ormel nodded, humbled and crest-fallen. But it didn’t last. Straightening his posture, he was buyout once more. “Your hypothesis regarding this collection may be correct, Inquisitor. Excellent work. If you do not mind, I am going to step out and fetch a book from my private stock. And perhaps we should re-affirm that word you stumbled on? ‘Orb’, I believe?”

Vinya’s face burned while she forced a shrug. “Sounds like a plan.”

Ormel bowed before exiting. His followers went with him, like birds in a flock. Solas immediately left her side to return to the book he’d been reading, ignoring her attempts to catch his gaze.

The room seemed a tomb of dead things in the chill of their silence.

“I didn’t _mean_ to be rude,” Vinya said, tossing the words in his direction. The ring burned in her fingers but she couldn't put it down.

“Well, you were,” countered Solas hotly. “Regardless of your aims.”

Vinya frowned. Widening her stance defensively, she turned to him. They owed each other something: whether a proper finish to their game from the night previous, or because of her pranks with Sera, but something was owed, and it was going to be words over a self-righteous jerk that no body liked. Vinya was surprised, but not put off. If Solas wanted to be mad, so be it. She could be mad right back.

“It wouldn’t have been so bad if he was better at his job."

There was no spite to her tone, but the words roped Solas in. He looked up from his book, then slowly walked over in a confident stride with his chin poised high and hands held behind. “No, it would not have been so bad had the man minded his pride. Ormel can be… high-minded. That does not mean you needed embarrass him.”

Vinya laughed unkindly. “It wasn’t on purpose! I didn’t realize what I was reading! Or doing. Or saying.”

And it _was_ true. She just wasn’t sorry.

Closing his eyes, Solas sighed. “Vinya, in the time I have known you, never have you been unaware of your actions. You have known precisely when your words have been curt. Or uncaring. Save when you’ve been drinking. Perhaps even then you’ve known.”

“He’s an ass, Solas,” Vinya insisted. She was uninterested in the _something_ he wasn’t quite saying. “Ormel stays cooped up in here surrounded by all this stuff while barking orders. He doesn’t give a crap about anything besides old relics, and he looks down his nose at those who do! Did you hear him? I would ‘never have an interest in my heritage’? Excuse me, but I’m _Dalish_. “

“Ormel and yourself have more in common than you realize,” Solas winced. It almost looked like a sneer. “What would you have of him, Inquisitor? He seeks lost truths, unlike your Dalish kin. He wishes to preserve the past rather than pretend out of wounded pride. And he is ridiculed for his efforts.”

“He goes out of his way to make other people feel little, and he’s mean to his aids,” Vinya replied. “How does—How does that not drive you crazy? I know what you’re like. You hate people who use their position to look down on other people!”

“I— “Solas stopped abruptly. He swallowed and looked over every inch of the woman’s face. “I do, yes.”

Vinya took a few steps closer. “Then why do you care so much?”

Solas glanced at the floor. But only for a moment. “If you asked his help, they would speak of his generosity. His heart in matters of history; his ability and mastery of magic. Ormel is not ‘mean’ – that is simply his way. But you are hasty. And you do not know him.”

“You’re probably right," conceded the Inquisitor. "And I’m never likely to.”

Solas turned away sharply.

The scorn on his face didn't reach his eyes. _Sadness_ ; _endless_. The man was nowhere near as straightforward as he tried to appear, so Vinya suspected his painting of parallels between himself and Ormel was not by accident. She was also sure that the angry surface of his feelings was there to mask the true source of his grief. Because those eyes –eyes which she now knew to spark with purple near the centre– were not bitter for Ormel, but they were sad for himself.

“But that’s alright,” the woman added, forcing a little smile. “You have your friends, and I have mine."

"And what friends they are," Solas replied thinly. "I keep the company of scholars, whereas you associate with pranksters content to put poison oak in peoples' beds. When they **could** bring about _true_ change!"

Vinya startled. Solas's tone resounded so loudly in her heart that she couldn't feel it beat. She'd tried to make peace, but her unarticulated honesty went unheard. To her, the apostate wasn't just magic, history, and artifacts. Solas was more than what was seen on the surface, and those who he associated with. That was what she'd meant. That was what she hadn't said.

She also hadn't said sorry – yet. Solas clearly knew who had put the nettles and flowers in his bunk. Which was why Vinya blew angrily through her nose, collected herself, and backed down.

"I'm sorry," she forced humbly through her teeth. It sounded pretty genuine.

"About?"

"About your bed!" Vinya shot back. His playing ignorant to get a confession was ridiculous, given that she'd tried to offer a truce. The way Solas allowed a subtle gleam of knowing to grace his face, while otherwise seeming innocent of her meaning, drove her crazy. Because it was almost entirely convincing. "About the prank! About friggin' Ormel! About–”

Her words ricocheted off the walls and returned, pounding their way to her brain. A wave of nausea hit square between the eyes. Vinya felt herself pale, warm; start to sweat. It took a moment of sustained silence and slight swaying to regain her thoughts.

"About last night," she finally finished, swallowing thickly. Solas stared. What light there was in the room collected and shone in his glance.

"Last night?" His mouth twitched.

"Sure," Vinya shrugged. Everything sounded far away now, even her own thoughts. "I stormed off like a brat instead of finishing our sparring. It was immature. As was the prank. I'm sorry we put all the crap in your bed."

After a long moment of quiet, Solas's shoulders fell. With a nod he conceded.

"Would you like me to help with the hang-over?"

Just like that, it was done. Storm passed; clouds clearing. He still sounded sad, but his offered actions spoke louder.

"R–  Really? We just screamed at eachother. "

Vinya expected more from him. More back-talk; more blame. Maybe more of his unwarranted speculations over her personal habits. Solas's assurances that Vinya was so very prescient while drunk was almost complimentary. Because she never remembered a thing the mornings after. But his trust was sweet.

"You're too good, Solas," she said. She tried to sound sarcastic, but it came out earnest. "Far too good. Too..."

_Follow the apostate's road to the land of his compassion._

It wasn't whispers from the Well of Sorrows. Nor was it words on paper she couldn't (and wouldn't) remember writing – not truly. 'Compassionate' was all she could think while she watched his eyes burn, his hands anticipating her permission so he might muster his mana and soothe her pain. His elbows were bent; fingers at the ready.

Never before would Vinya have used the word to describe him. After all, 'freckles' and 'Fade-lover' were way better.

"Do you remember who we first helped as the Inquisition?"

Vinya didn't care for preamble, or an excuse when he inevitably asked why this had crossed her mind. She wanted this out of the way. She wanted the weight of lies to be gone. Solas was better than she'd thought; kinder, and, yes, _compassionate_. She felt guilty standing there with him, knowing these truths would not have been discovered without these stupid clues. She felt guilty, hung-over, and strangely alive.

"I do," Solas nodded. He did not ask after the seemingly random nature of her query. He read what he would from it: that she was reminded of good, self-less acts, maybe, or a time before they'd drifted so far apart. And he turned his body totally to her, so that his answer would be fully attentive.

That was when Ormel returned.


	9. Chapter 9

“Found them!”

All insults suggested towards his superior expertise were entirely forgotten as Ormel made a musical return. His voice was sing-songy, and, along with his swishing step, served to announce his presence so that Solas and Vinya could part to either side of the small hallway and make room for the scholar. Which they did.

Pressing up against the wall, Vinya’s heart beat harder. She wondered if Solas would follow Ormel into the workshop or stay and answer the question. It had seemed off-handed enough; ambiguous, and like something there only to fill silence.

“What have you retrieved, Ormel?” Solas called after his friend. “Padriag's text on translations? His etymological essays?”

Ormel answered from within the room. “A catalogue of ritualistic artifacts. And Fabrice Bartlette’s work on historical linguistics.”

Solas sneered. Vinya looked at him oddly and the man explained. “Bartlette’s arguments are faulty. He insists the elvhen language matured under Tevinter influence. It is not taken seriously. As he is mistaken.”

“Why does Ormel use his stuff, then?”

Solas sighed. “They formed an acquaintance in Orlais as Ormel studied. And there are... fashionable circles which would prefer the Dalish appear inferior even to Tevinter. Circles with spare wealth for funding.”

Though Vinya's stomach was already bothered, this made her queasy. "You'd think they'd hate us less than slavers," she grimaced.

“Indeed,” Solas nodded, "you would."

Despite the current topic of conversation, his indignant tone made the Inquisitor glow. Solas had always been this: superior intelligence standing a head taller than everyone else; set and strong convictions that had no care to keep to themselves. He was confident in word and deed. What he rarely was, however, was a part of the elvhen people.

Solas seldom conceded to elves and himself as being the same. He did not often say 'we' when referring to Vinya, Sera, himself, and anyone else who descended from Arlathan. Vinya grinned because Solas's annoyance had him forgetting himself. And she liked it when he referred to himself a part of an "us". It made her feel the same as when he called her lethallan: warm. Comfortable. Welcome. Warm. _**Warm**_.

_Warm, oh, Elgar'nan, it is way too fucking warm in—_

A wave of nausea caught the woman at unawares. The sickness took all her concentration and strength with it to her stomach. Vinya could hold back because, despite the dizziness, she could do _**anything**_ , _dammit_ ; however, now her legs were going liquid while her other limbs had become weighted.

"Inquisitor, you're—"

She jammed her eyes closed. She could feel the sickness roiling within. Sweat started to bead all over her body.

"Do not be alarmed. _There_. That should do."

She didn't feel his touch. She hardly heard his voice softened to a soothing whisper. But she sure felt his magic. It was not the first time, nor was it even the first time lately. During their sparring match Solas had tossed up a precautionary barrier, but Vinya had been too distracted to consider it. Now she could do nothing but.

"Mm," Vinya murmured lightly.

 _Cool_. Swirling in little licks like winter morning wind up her spine and neck. Blue and humming; green, and then insistent. After that tentative touch, Solas's mana focused like the whirl of a hurricane.

Arching her back, Vinya groaned.

Against the black of her eyelids she sensed an ocean of phosphorescence. It spread out through her body, making its waving way along her spine which, like a river, directed the flow of relief. Up and down her neck, she thought she felt a grip like a hand, but it was watery and wonderful and thorough. Her stomach settled while the flood thinned gradually to nothing. Then the even temperature of the hall returned. Vinya huffed.

"Is that better?"

Opening her eyes, she looked blearily at Solas.

"I was _this_ close to throwing-up on your toes."

The man chuckled. It stayed a long time on his face: his cheeks high and happy; his lips smiling and parting enough to show his teeth. They stone with the same light that was in his eyes.

Vinya smiled back.

"Now," Solas began seriously, "where comes this nostalgia?"

"This...?" _Oh._ The woman nodded. Somehow, she'd forgotten. "Right. Well, I've, uh, been thinking of... I want to say 'the old days', but that makes me sound like our hahren." Vinya pushed off from the wall and paced. "But I have. I've been thinking about when it was just you, me, Cassandra, and Varric all running around trying to get people to take us seriously. Back when no one would help us. Or we had to make any friggin' thing we needed when away from Haven. When Varric and I would get black-out drunk at night. Gods, we were in denial then. Everything seemed so crazy..."

Through a hole in time she tumbled. Solas's mana was still tingling on her skin; clearing her mind. Vinya remembered how much time she and Varric had spent together, and how now they hardly spoke. Varric was the only one she could really talk to back then. Both Solas and Cassandra had been so bent on the Inquisition's responsibilities, and there’d been no room for doubt or fear.

But Varric? He'd carried flasks (as in plural) should the need for a shot of liquid courage arise. He'd shared them always with Vinya. And he'd been the one to ask her how she was holding up.

The Inquisitor looked at Solas. Her heart felt like it had been sucker-punched. It was all lies. She hadn't been thinking of the 'old days' – she'd been thinking only of the trail of clues. Of course, _now_ she was thinking of the old days.

Vinya traded steady stares with Solas. "When you and I fought a lot more," she reminded him coyly.

The apostate nodded in acknowledgement. "Our arguments certainly lack the old stamina, that is true."

"Which is nice," Vinya pointed out.

"It is," Solas agreed.

Through the conspicuous silence, Ormel could be heard barking orders at his lackeys.

"You gonna go get back in there?" asked Vinya.

Solas tilted his head a little. "It depends. Did you want an answer?"

The woman nodded quickly, eyes round.

"The first person we helped as the Inquisition was a fellow laden with woven packs and pouches," Solas said thoughtfully while resting back against the wall. "He was on his way to the Hinterlands –as we were– to pick the reeds and roots required for his work. With him was his son. As I recall, they gave us gifts for dispatching marauders. "

"I remember him!" Vinya gasped happily. Solas's words sketched the outline, but her own memory coloured and framed it. "I totally remember him. He gave me this! I love this! I carry it with me all the time."

Looking down at her belt, she touched over the attached woven purse made of young, thin spruce roots. It was a small thing made by small fingers – the son that Solas had mentioned. The weaver had lost his wife to bandits some time before, and he'd cried thankfully for the rescue. The little boy, not understanding why his papae cried, started sobbing himself, and it’d been adorable and tragic.

"His son was impressed by our ears," Solas added with a grin, to which Vinya giggled. While absent-mindedly pulling the pouch open, she envisioned the scene.

"That's right! He was jealous! Oh, he was _so_ sweet. And he asked Cassandra to come live with them! He liked her so much. The look on her face when–"

Something within the purse did not belong. Cocking her head, Vinya noted old coins, an even older acorn, the Inquisition seal she used with the shops (so that Josephine could be billed later), and a small knife. But there was also a rolled-up piece of parchment she did not recognize: tied with string; sitting on top the rest.

Unravelling it, she expected to see an old missive from Lady Montilyet. Josephine was constantly jotting things down for her, mainly dates and places for meeting dignitaries. No matter how often Josephine conferred with her personally about this stuff, Vinya usually forgot. Or pretended that she forgot, at least.

It turned out, however, that Vinya had written it.

 _You are nearing the end. Soon you will understand who it is that created the Orb. But knowing 'who' will not be enough. To stop them, you must_ —

"Is everything alright, Vinya?"

Her head snapped up.

"No," she answered truthfully. Letting go a suffocating sigh, she bid Solas a good-evening.

Her bed was the perfect amount of softness when she climbed onto it. Vinya held on to that. Latching on with all her fortitude to the fact that her bed was comfy kept her from sobbing – at least for a little while.

Out she stretched on the royal-blue duvet embroidered with silver lining. Someone had come and lit the hearth, and that warmth kept the mountain cold at bay. There was relief in this, too; in considering the monotony of Skyhold's machinations. But when she realized she was trembling, Vinya broke into sudden hysterical tears.

Her pain too strong to stifle echoed in the rafters. She **always** wore that purse. It was compact and perfect for fitting under her armor. And somehow the new clue had gotten in there like a worm worked into an apple. She was so fucking tired of worrying ‘how’. Cole had affirmed her suspicions –that this all had to do with the Well of Sorrows– and that... That was another thing.

Rolling on to her side, Vinya whimpered while pulling her legs to her chest. It was the Well doing these things. And it **had** been ancient elves she'd met: people who had actually seen Arlathan. Arlathan was supposed to be a story they told you growing up: a cautionary tale for teaching young elflings to avoid human contact. But they knew the truth, those sentinels. And they served Mythal the Goddess. A Goddess who had been real.

Lurching as she lay down, Vinya vomited. She tried to swallow. The fear in her chest kept her from being able to breathe, so she choked. Pushing her head over the side of the bed just in time, the Inquisitor’s stomach emptied quietly on the floor. The notion of needing it cleaned distracted her for a second, but only a second: then she wished she would just die under the weight of her breaking mind.

"An autumn evening. Aravels waiting with their warm blankets and arms to hold you. Cracking, creaking; swaying like the trees. Smells of smoke, spice, myrtle; mamae. The fire flickers in your father's eyes – _up you go, sprig; time to sleep_ – but you say—"

"Cole," Vinya muttered thickly as she forced herself onto her back. The spirit was barely visible through her hot, horrible tears. "It's too much, Cole."

"You are close," Cole promised.

And he continued whispering memories of home while Vinya passed into fretful sleep.

When she awoke, he was still there. At her desk; bathed in dawn’s purple light. Cole picked up the purse which had caused such a violent reaction, and Vinya, utterly alert, tensed with feelings of protectiveness. Her jaw set with a painful crack; her whole body steeled. Then she took a deep breath, held it, held it one second longer, and let it go.

The evening’s outburst waned from her being like water evaporating off the skin. Like the tears and sweat (probably) ( _ugh_ ) of the night prior. Vinya’s mind sought the Dalish hunter within; the woman who tracked prey relentlessly, and methodically, or her clan starved. It helped her work to set specific goals –to figure out an exact target– so that was what she did.

Nothing concerning Mythal could be helped. It did not immediately matter. The next clue did. It needed to be scrutinized and followed. Vinya had all the fear of the Dread Wolf struck into her now, but that just strengthened her belief that the threat was real, and when Vinya was afraid she fought back tooth-and-fucking-nail.

“I guess it’s alright if you look,” Vinya said to the spirit standing off in the room. Her voice sounded a lot softer than she felt. Inward, she was hardened and ready. “I mean, you already know what it says. Right?”

Cole didn’t react. He looked up; saw through her. It was done in such a way that the Inquisitor stopped cold. Cole’s eyes were blue verging on white, like where the morning sky and clouds become lost in each other. And, like those clouds, they saw the prophetic truths of things. But Cole delved into the heart much deeper than any kind of divination. If he looked through you, he looked through your essence, not your body. And as Cole looked at her now, Vinya felt the formlessness of nothing. For he did not see her body – or her spirit.

“Fuck,” she cursed.

It didn’t help that he was just plain acting like she wasn’t there. Cole was going about this business, snooping all stealthy, when Vinya realized the reality of the situation. He wasn’t actually in the bedroom. Because she wasn’t there, either; not really. Where she was was in the friggin’ Fade.

“Friggin Fade,” the woman frowned, hauling herself up from the bed.

_The Friggin Fade._

The bedroom was bathed in a curling green light which wasn’t seen but felt. And it felt thick. Vinya had done this a few times now, much to her horror. Things were wrong there in the Beyond: the clouds in the sky moved too fast, or not at all. Shadows cast a darkness too whole and complete to just be the absence of light – demons were in there, lurking, if indeed the shadow itself was not a demon. Her footsteps were soundless; she could not feel the breath in her chest. Vinya would never understand why mages like Solas sought it out. What was there to learn from this scene? Nothing. It was just her and Cole, unable to communicate.

Like peering towards the far, brilliant bright exit to a cave, Vinya reached out for consciousness. Shaking awake, she looked around and saw that this time she was alone.

A white-hot pain engulfed her left hand with anxiety-inducing throbbing. Frowning, Vinya breathed angrily through her nose. _Reminder,_ she wondered, _or warning?_ It was, after all, **that** hand. The bad hand. The hand anchoring her to all her troubles. Growling, Vinya pulled the new clue out of her purse, thunked back down on the bed, and read it.

_You are nearing the end. Soon you will understand who it is that created the Orb. But knowing 'who' will not be enough. To stop them, you must understand them._

_The next clue lies within a copy of "Dalish Myth and Collected Truths Against”, collected by Sister Petrine. Read the book - do not simply follow where it sends you next. I know that title is enough for you to roll our eyes, but believe me: that's the point_

Vinya balked. Read?! A whole damned book?! Did the Well, herself, and whoever else realize the extreme amount of extra time she did **not** have to waste on (what was probably) 300 pages of boring bullshittery?

She did not want to peruse a bunch of Chantry propaganda aimed against her people. She didn’t want to read about Dalish beliefs that… Well, despite Vinya’s new reservations about dismissing Mythal, she still didn’t want to read about Her. The faith of her childhood was buried deep under old ceremony and frustrations at how her people were treated by humans. Either way, she didn’t have time.

Peeling off the mattress, and pouting like a cranky kid, the woman made her way down into the main of Skyhold.

Laughingly, happily unbelievingly, “You did not!” was the first thing Vinya heard as she approached the War Room. It was too early for anyone else besides the serving staff to be up, but Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine’s merry morning conversation was enough to wake the dead. Vinya pushed the door open and three pretty faces swung in her direction.

“You didn’t what? Who didn’t what to the where now?”

Josephine, of course, fluttered towards the coffee to make the Inquisitor a cup. Leliana shot what seemed like the fifth or sixth misbelieving look at Cullen, who just shook his head.

“The Commander is attempting to make a mockery of our institution,” the spymaster said wickedly.

“I am not,” Cullen insisted with an exasperated laugh. He looked earnestly at the Inquisitor. “I only— I met with the Chargers last night to speak of my men. After they reported on the Arbor Wilds, I was invited for a drink. They—”

“Again?” Vinya’s mouth fell open. “… _Again_?! How do I keep missing you finally have some fun?”

“He claims he drank Grim under the table,” Leliana smirked.

“I said I matched him in equal measure,” Cullen corrected her. “Pint-for-pint. I am no green recruit, you know. I can handle myself.”

Vinya immediately wondered if she should invite him to a bout of beer-sparring with her, Bull, and Blackwall. She’d practised with Cullen a few times at Haven; however, he’d seemed to be holding back, either out of fear of hurting her, or out of fear of harming the Mark. But before she could open her mouth, Cullen continued.

“Speaking of which, Krem asked me to pass along the report should I see you first.”

The writing was legible (unlike her own). Born of a Tevinter education; hardened by a calloused hand. It got the work done, but, like Krem himself, was rough around the edges.

 

                _My men lit extra campfires, marched with rattles on their boots, and used a few other tricks to inflate our apparent numbers. We encountered no hostile forces beyond wildlife, but if there are enemy scouts in the area, they should see the Inquisition as a threat._

_-Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi_

Vinya nodded while her eyes roamed the page. “And they managed to come back with a bunch of loot, too. The Chargers definitely get it done.” Looking up scrupulously, she said, “I expect Krem was a little wordier down at the bar?”

“No,” Cullen shook his head. “In fact he read the report verbatim.”

Vinya smiled to herself. Krem wasn’t much of a talker.

“Speaking of,” the woman began while putting the paper down, “Josephine. I have a few Inquisitorial decrees.”

“Decrees?” Leliana’s brow shot up.

“Alright, ‘requests’,” Vinya admitted cheekily. “First: can you get someone to find me a book in the library? It’s…” Pulling out the clue and reading, she repeated quickly, “’ _Dalish Myth and Collected Truths Against’._ By Sister Petrine. Secondly, do we have men available to scout the area that the Chargers brought that stuff back from?”

“I… yes,” Josephine affirmed while jotting down notes. “We have some of the soldiers who accompanied with the Chargers, as well as agents recently returned from Orlais.”

The Inquisitor looked at Leliana. “Orlais?”

Sister Nightengale nodded. “Yes. I’ve a note from Briala. Vanatori infiltrators have been seen in the Nahashin Marshes. That is central-Orlais. Sparsely peopled, but not a place we want populated by the enemy.”

“Huh.” Vinya thought while looking at the map before them. “That is definitely more important than my thing. Alright. Leliana’s scouts should see about dealing with that. Cullen? Can I have your men back where we talked about?”

“Of course,” Cullen nodded. “To ready for your arrival?”

“Um, well, no. Ormel’s investigating of that stuff suggests there might be more iron bark out there. Enough that it’d be worth trying to collect.”

“We’ve more than enough resources,” Leliana pointed out.

“Yeah, but…”

“Iron bark would most surely be an asset,” Josephine insisted helpfully. “Our ties with the Dalish clans are not as strong as they might be. Besides Loranil’s people and your own.”

“Awesome,” Vinya nodded. “Thanks.”

As though waiting for a break in the conversation, and she very well might have been, one of Josephine’s personal assistants popped their head in. Though she said nothing, she obviously did not have to.

“Ah, good,” Josephine nodded. “Thank-you. Inquisitor, might you accompany me to meet with the newly arriving nobles?” She began walking towards the exit while practically herding Vinya in the same direction. “Their runner got here about an hour ago. It appears they are right on schedule.”

“How refreshing,” Leliana added drolly as the door closed heavily behind the polished Antivan and the sulking Marcher.

Josephine’s reasons for forcing Vinya to go with her were rather justified. This was the part of the job that the elf hated: dignitaries, politics, and ass-kissing. (There was always ass-kissing with the nobles.) Given the choice, Vinya would have skirted this annoying-as-balls responsibility.

Although to say that she hated it was rather disingenuous. Because Vinya didn’t have enough experience with it to honestly say she hated it.

“Please remember to find that book,” she pleaded as they made their way to the front of the Great Hall.

It was warm. The blazing hearths often had the room boiling along with all the bodies moving about, or sitting at conversation, but the tall doors to Skyhold were now flung open. And in with the contingent of arrivals came the cold, morning breeze.

“Ambassador Montilyet!” squealed a fresh-faced woman with streaming curls, the whitest damask dress ever sewn, and a thick Starkhaven accent. Behind her were about half-a-dozen gorgeously dressed people dripping with jewels and silver. “It has been too long!”

“Lady Fenella!” Josephine stuttered back with surprised, exuberant grace. “I expected your mother when the runner informed me a Lady Diarmid would be in the group. What a pleasant surprise!”

“Mother couldn’t make the journey,” supplied the woman who looked to be about 19 or 20, if that. “Her hips. Now, how are you? And this is…?”

“This is the Inquisitor,” Josephine boasted, motioning to Vinya with her hand. “Lady Vinya of clan Lavellan. She is from the Free Marches as well.”

“I knew there was a reason you and I would get on!” schmoozed Fenella. “Other than being chosen by our Lady Andraste, of course.”

“Of course,” Vinya repeated through a forced smile. She swallowed a thick knot in her throat. “Welcome to Skyhold, Lady Diarmid.”

“Oh, so formal!” giggled the blonde. “Fenella. Absolutely call me Fenella. We’ve come from Starkhaven to show our support for the Inquisition, given your relations with our… _Prince_. He may not throw-in with you, but we do. Now, Josephine, if we could see our rooms? We’d like to freshen-up before discussing exactly how we can help the Inquisition.”

“With pleasure,” bowed Josephine. “If you might follow me?”

Sighing a breath of relief, Vinya watched the group walk by, all bowing and curtseying as they went. Once they were gone, she could see Varric watching with an interesting expression from his usual seat.

“Yes?” Vinya asked slyly while walking up.

“She should have said ‘how the Inquisition can help them’.” Varric sighed. “Of course, then they’d be honest, and you know how nobles are.”

“Not honest,” Vinya agreed as she slid into the chair beside him and the fire. “Yeah.”

There was a plate of cheese and figs, olives, bread, and a canter of _something_ that Varric was drinking. Turned out to be wine, red and rich, and Vinya poured herself a tall cup into a silver mug. Varric was a casual and easy drinker, which she liked. He didn’t drink to just get drunk. Of course, when he _was_ hammered, it was hard to tell.

Not that he often got tanked at 10 in the morning.

Vinya felt a twinge of sentimentality as Varric lifted his glass. They clinked their drinks and took their sips.

“One of them mentioned _The Prince_ isn’t that impressed with us,” Vinya reported cheekily while reaching for a plump, purple olive. She loved its saltiness when paired with the wine. It tasted so weird.

Varric’s face was a mixture of gratitude and annoyance. “Yeah. Choir-Boy is not too happy you declined to help him annex Kirkwall.” He frowned. “The idiot. Did Sebastian really think that would work? Even if we **had** joined his little coup, Aveline would have kicked _all_ our asses back out the city gates.”

“Did anyone bother telling him that none of your friends are even still in Kirkwall? Or that guys’ friends, anyways.”

“News travels slow through thick skulls. And besides, it could have been a land-grab.” Varric took a long haul from his cup. “Which, by the way, is why those nobles are here. My sources tell me the throne is in contention _again_ because of what Choir-Boy is doing. From a religious position, Starkhaven is behind him, but Sebastian isn’t getting results. So the same nobles who wanted the same throne ten years ago are grasping at straws and using it as an excuse to oust him. It isn’t going to work, of course.”

“No?” Vinya asked.

“Sebastians’ a force to be reckoned with now. Hawke **really** pissed him off.” Before taking another drink of wine, Varric whispered affectionately into the mug, “ _Atta girl_.”

Vinya smiled at the familiarity in his voice. She wasn’t aware of the whole story behind the Champion of Kirkwall or her relationship with Varric. There were, apparently, unfathomable stories and scars; tears and tumultuous arguments; laughter and great love. Varric got _a look_ whenever he talked about Hawke, and that look said a lot more about him as a person: that his loyalty was fierce and protective. It was sweet. Varric was a sweet, sweet man.

Vinya hadn’t spent much time with Marian “Ann” Hawke, though. And her opinion of the woman was pretty divided. First and foremost, she was a formidable fighter. Ann had absolutely destroyed the demons at Adamant Fortress. What Vinya liked about her style was that although she wielded a staff, the woman spent about as much time cracking skulls with it as throwing fire. Vinya stopped and sputtered the first time she’d seen it. Then laughed. Then given an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Of course, therein lied the entirety of the situation: Ann was a mage. A mage in the most magey-mage way possible. Ann had supported her lover’s choice to blow-up the Chantry for the sake of mages’ rights, and she had a lot of ire for anyone who disagreed. Fiery ire. Fade-inspired, fist-shaped ire, and sparks of lightning that burned things black.

It’d caused problems when she’d come to Skyhold. Vivienne was not one to silence her opinions. And Hawke had very good hearing.

Vinya refused to have an opinion on it, though. She agreed with Sera: mages weren’t dangerous – magic was. And mages were shoved into institutions while being blamed for the “sins of Man”, which was awful. But Ann’s boyfriend killed hundreds, and his actions led to deaths numbered in the thousands. There was freedom to be found in the Chantry’s destruction, but at what cost?

So Vinya refused to have an opinion. She’d disbanded the templars as a religious organization when absorbing them into the Inquisition, but she didn’t have an opinion. She’d just needed bodies to help with the fight.

(Although, she had, of course, _happily_ disbanded the templars. One less fanatical shemlen faction was certainly better for the Dalish in the long-run.)

“How is Ann doing?” Vinya asked tentatively. She shoved more olives in her mouth.

Varric shrugged. “Hard to say. I haven’t heard from her in a while. She sent a letter before travelling into the Anderfels, though. Said she’d send another from Weisshaupt. One for me, and one in a more, uh, _official_ capacity for the Inquisition.”

“And? Did she… you know… meet up with ‘the apostate’?”

“She did,” Varric said, straining to sound a smidgen cheerful. “She mentioned that the fake Calling is doing a number on him. Still. _Again_. Whatever.”

It was surprising how much resentment he saved for Anders. A lot of it was mixed up in frustrations aimed inwards – he felt a responsible for Kirkwall, after all. It was his home: all he’d known, and all he’d ever wanted to know. And, at the core of it, was the question which he’d once asked while more than tipsy and way passed broken-hearted/betrayed:

_‘How can she love someone like that?’_

‘How’ indeed. How could anyone love someone willing to take such action? Someone able to stand the burden of weighing a group of lives against another? Someone so dedicated to the whole picture that they ignored the details? The details that screamed in blood-red agony; sobbed for their loved ones, or themselves.

“Speaking of apostates…”

But luckily Varric’s voice cut through her dire and dark thoughts. Vinya’s eyes drifted up and caught the image of Solas approaching with a swagger in his step and a book in his hands.

“Inquisitor; Varric,” Solas nodded to both. “Vinya, I believe you were looking for this book.”

The woman’s eyes fell to the tome held between long, refined fingers. Stuffed about half-way through was a piece of paper. Vinya’s eyes rounded, recalling the note’s warning about not just reading the new clue, but the book, too. Did that mean the new clue was just… in the book? Sticking out, possibly? Sticking out right there, where anyone might see?

 _Well, that’s not good_ , Vinya thought as she traded a look with Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone is interested in doing some beta-work for this fic, let me know :)


	10. Chapter 10

“ _Oh_ ,” Varric rasped in tickled, gruff delight. “What are you reading, Inquisitor? One of mine, I hope.”

Vinya climbed to her feet, smiling. “Nope. Last time I read your stuff, my expectations got heightened way too much. Turns out neither my sword or shield are very giving lovers. Broke my heart.”

Solas chuckled under his breath while Varric shrugged.

“That’s because you, my dear, need a battle-axe.”

A crack rang out as Vinya high-fived the dwarf. He was a poet indeed.

Turning, the Inquisitor looked at the book in the hands of the man rather than the man himself. Solas seemed very tall as he stood there holding her life in his palm, for, with Vinya’s world all but devoted to the trail of clues, that is what it felt like. It made her squirm.

“Par’al interrupted my breakfast while attempting to find this,” Solas goaded playfully. “Apparently the Inquisitor’s academic interests precede consideration for others.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Vinya snorted, putting her hands out. She tried to remember who Par’al was – the head librarian, or their assistant. “Now gimme gimme. Wait…”

Solas’s words caught up with her. It was a slow process; one that took so long because a hungry mind makes for sluggish workings.

_Breakfast. He said breakfast._

Vinya loved her food: her sweets, her salty, and sour. She also loved the idea of taking off before Solas could question her about the book. Or, at least, the paper stuck inside the book, which Vinya feared was the next clue. Which he might have seen. Which would be bad.

Snatching the tome out of his hand, Vinya hurried through the doors to the rotunda.

“Inquisitor!”

Solas called after her, perturbed and confused. By the time he got his feet to following, Vinya had hunkered down in his high-backed seat (book safely at her side) and was eating cooled, soggy toast that wasn’t _great_ , but it was still **good** , although that had a lot to do with what was thickly spread on top.

“Mm.” Vinya’s eyes rolled with unseemly pleasure. Honey was rare in the Free Marches: a commodity seldom bought as scarce coin was better put towards materials or medicine the clan could not otherwise obtain. There were alternatives to hard-to-find honey, after all.

Maple syrup had been the sweetness of her youth. Tapped, bucketed, boiled; sometimes meat was cooked in it rather than water for special occasions. Slathering it on bannock was tradition. But maple syrup simply didn’t have the same sunshine-yellow, field-and-flowers taste. Honey was subtler, but somehow more specific. Gods, it was better than gold.

Vinya forced a sheepish front as Solas observed his breakfast dwindling. She spoke around a mouthful of toast. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Nor have I,” Solas replied. “Not really.”

He settled on the couch, crossing one leg over the other.

The bread, the bacon, and the honey all got farther and farther from her fingers as she felt the apostate watching. Vinya kept making audibly satisfied sounds, in the hopes that Solas might find it stupidly amusing, but eventually the guilt from stealing his meal got to her. Licking her fingers, she took the book with her to sit at his side.

“ _So_ good,” she informed the man.

“I’m pleased,” Solas said evenly. But a flash –one singular spark in his eye– suggested he was not too angry.

Vinya lazed out on the couch. “I’ll make sure someone brings three cups of custard with your lunch. I promise. Do you forgive me?”

“That is not necessary,” Solas insisted. His brows became like surprised half-moons. “Your appetite amazes me. Considering the suddenness of your exist yesterday.”

Leaving him in the hall with a new clue in her hand seemed like a life-time ago. A life-time of tears, resolutions, and new-found resolve. “Oh, this is nothing. I usually eat a full meal most mornings when I’m, uh… recovering. I find it helps. Bull said it’s because the food soaks up the alcohol. But then, I’m usually kinda cranky until I get some food in me.”

Solas chuckled. “Yes.” It wasn’t a jab – just friendly affirmation, and affectionate acknowledgement.

Small-talk: innocent, simple, and easy. Which, incidentally, was exactly how they looked at each other. Solas was obviously innocent of the secret knowledge within the book, and his eyes drifted over her face as meandering as dandelion seeds bobbing easy in the wind.

Vinya just eyeballed him like she’d eaten his breakfast. _Oops_. The flowers she’d thrown into Solas’s bed (along with rashy things) were now on a pedestal beside the couch. _Double oops._ The man’s insistence that they stay seemed a little cruel, given that she’d apologized, but she did deserve it. Besides, a kick-in-the-ass in the form of flowers wasn’t the worse fate to suffer.

Resting one arm along the back of the couch, Solas nodded to the book. “There is little in those pages you’ll recognize. Sister Petrine was pained greatly by faithfully preserving Dalish myth, if in fact she spoke with any elf in the process.”

Vinya frowned. “Excellent. Now I really can’t wait to read it.”

The Inquisitor seemed a tougher read than the book by the way Solas watched her.

“Why are you—? “

Like a sharp slap, a sudden laugh was heard loudly through the door. It was girlish, free, and kind of blood-curdling. Vinya thought it belonged to the blonde Starkhaven noble, Lady Fenella Diarmid, so she hopped up and motioned for Solas to follow.

“C’mon!”

The ramparts promised safe haven. Solas carefully closed the door behind them as he questioned her with a look. Meanwhile the Inquisitor gazed at the sun climbing in the sky, the sky tumbling with clouds, and the clouds making their way west. It was a beautiful morning.

“Some uppity-ups came from Starkhaven today,” Vinya explained. Leaning back on the battlement walls, she ran a hand over her hair. “I kind of… don’t want to see them.”

“Avoiding your duties, Vinya?”

Solas examined the Skyhold peasants below moving from their morning chores to afternoon activities. Some scurried around for the blacksmiths; others chopped wood for the kitchens. Vinya joined his side and tried to see if she recognized anyone, but she did not. They were all strangers.

“Not avoiding. Not really,” Vinya promised. “According to Varric, there’s some shit going down over the throne. Prince Sebastian isn’t exactly our best ally, and the nobles want to use us to get into power… or something. I don’t think we should get involved.” The woman hiked herself up to sitting on the wall’s edge. “Honestly? Let the Prince wear himself out over Kirkwall, or trying to get Hawke, or whatever he’s doing. If he exhausts his supporters, then maybe someone else can take over. He can step down; someone can step up. And there doesn’t have to be any assassinations, plots, or stupid, sneaky maneuvers.”

“That is well-considered,” Solas approved. “Peasants and servants often suffer during times of transition. Though I doubt the Prince would abdicate.”

Vinya blushed at the compliment. Truthfully, she merely did not want to get involved.

Being Inquisitor wasn’t all bad. In fact, she liked the job well enough when not needing to worry about ominous, weirdo clues showing up in random, private places. Or her hand having agency of its own. Or _whatever_. But the political stuff was overwhelming, and Vinya simply didn’t see a future at Skyhold once Corypheus (/the clues) was dealt with.

The majority of decisions she’d made were not future-friendly. She had never planned for the Inquisition’s longevity, and she hadn’t bothered building the relationships with other organizations that she should have. The Wardens, for instance, didn’t exactly have her in their good books, and putting Gaspard up as a puppet for Briala was definitely going come back and bite her butt at some point.

On top of this, there’d been deals made with contactors and merchants that weren’t meant to last. It was easier to negotiate for their presence in the short-term, so that was what Vinya had done. Signed, sealed, and secured for eighteen months, if even that long. Because she liked simple.

So she didn’t want the Starkhaven ‘help’. Angering Prince Sebastian would only bring immediate repercussions, and immediate was what concerned her. She would not be Inquisitor when their favors actually mattered.

She was, however, now and forever, the Keeper, Queen, and Empress of excuses. Solas sure seemed to buy it.

“Why did you want the book?” he pried conversationally.

Vinya self-depreciatingly smiled. _Ha._ She stole a peek at his curiosity. _Excuses time._

“I…“ The lie died quickly and without pain. “…Don’t know.”

Clearing of everything but blue, the sky mirrored the cast of Solas’s eyes. Just as the clouds rolled away, the apostate’s expression became alert and bright, and Vinya found it hard to put another fib on the pile of dishonesty she’d lately flung his way. Omission was easily as bad, and after her initial blunder she tried again, this time changing the subject. Somewhat.

“It’s not very authentic, though, huh?” Vinya put the book down and crossed her arms. “Petrine couldn’t figure-out the Dalish? What was it – the fact that we were once incredibly powerful and didn’t need _‘The Maker’_ to get there? Or that we don’t exist for the sake of licking the boots we’ve polished? No, wait. I bet it’s how we manage to survive without caking on an inch of cosmetic-y crap. That probably went right over her head. She’s Orlesian, isn’t she? The name sounds Orlesian.”

Solas laughed a little. But only a little. “Not every Orlesian is consumed by vanity. Though that is largely the culture.”

“Yeah? And not every Dalish wants to eat the flesh of new-born human babies.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, however, Vinya felt a thought tapping on her shoulder. It was asking for attention. That thought, it turned out, had friends. Some of them were shaking their heads; some making ‘tsking’ sounds on their metaphorical tongues. Vinya knew better now. Not about Orlesians or shems, necessarily – they definitely kept finding ways of disappointing or confusing her. But she knew better about the Dalish. They weren’t infallible. No one was.

“I mean, some probably do. I won’t deny that. They’re probably real tender, and taste good with—Ugh, okay, even I can’t make that joke.” Vinya heaved a very heavy sigh. “My point being, the Dalish aren’t monsters. But I also know not everyone thinks we’re terrible. Although we are sometimes terrible.”

“Spending time with Sera has certainly altered your perspective,” Solas observed without insinuation.

“It… yeah. It wasn’t just Sera, but yeah.”

Memories of her clan’s suffered abuses –being thrown off land; access to water they’d been denied– boiled within her, but she let that hot heart-blood cool as it coursed to her mind. She was not betraying them. She loved them still. But she was no longer blind.

“Definitely not just Sera,” she repeated. Her voice was quiet as it found words and opinions she had never before shared. “We were taught to avoid humans by our elders. Because if they got us, they’d kill us. Put us in the stew like any other ‘rabbit’ they caught. But back at Haven, do you know what I heard most people saying? ‘ _Oh, the Hero of Fereldan is Dalish, too. They can’t all be bad_ ’. Which isn’t great. It’s pretty crap, in fact. But it’s _something_. At least it’s enough to give some people pause before insulting us, or putting a knife in our backs. It’s enough to get humans talking about us like we’re not only savages.

“So… I don’t know. A lot of it was just seeing how shemlen _are_ instead of how they’re ‘supposed’ to be. They’re selfish, and they’re generous. They’re afraid, and they’re brave. Blackwall is one of the bravest men I know, even though he ran from what he did, and – Oh, frig. _Don’t_. Don’t give me that look, alright? It took guts. Owning up to his mistakes, and telling us who he **really** was, took guts. It was better than hiding. I know you know that.

“But… _hm_. Okay. Point is: shemlen aren’t evil. They’re stupid. Just like the Dalish. Because sometimes we’re stupid, too. Like constantly moving around out of pride? _That’s_ stupid.”

“It is not only out of pride,” Solas offered kindly. “There are few alternatives to flight that will spare the elves from templars’ steel. Or the snares of slavers.”

“Aw. Look at you.” Vinya teased him with a bat of her eyelashes. “Sticking up for the Dalish. What did you say once? We should plant a tree to commemorate this unlikely event?”

“…Yes. And I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The wind swelled and stormed like thunder around them. “Sometimes I look at you and think ‘oh, there’s that city-boy’. I **know** I’ve called you that. Which is dumb. It sucks that elves in alienages have to live like they do, but we Dalish don’t need to be all condescending and act like you’re children. And we don’t have to move around just because that’s what we do, and it marks us as different from those in the cities, or the shems. I always, _always_ thought that staying in one place would be like a prison, but it’s not all that bad. It’s nice, actually.”

“You’ve grown,” Solas affirmed after— what? Measuring maturity in the shape of her eyes? The colour of her cheeks? He looked at her a long time, and instead of squirming under his gaze Vinya stared back with matching intensity.

“And you defended the Dalish,” Vinya recalled. This time she forgot the sarcasm. This time she saw it only for what it was, and her heart swelled. “So you have, too.”

“Not ‘defended’, necessarily,” Solas countered. Suddenly the transparency of his face was lost to a strange shadow of thought. The workings of his mind were apparent as he realized he’d done exactly as she claimed. “If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours, **have** I misjudged them?”

“I don’t know,” Vinya admitted. His indecision pleased her. And the admiration was nice, too. “We are simply people who do both good things and bad things. We try to preserve our culture. We might be wrong about what that’s supposed to be –according to you, at least– but we try. We love ourselves. Which is good, because no one else out there is going to.”

“This why you sought the Sister Petrine’s work. You miss your people.”

Vinya looked away.

_No_.

“No.”

It was true. In ways beyond sloppily penned notes come from the Fade. This opportunity to confess, however skewed, did not go wasted.

“I miss them, yes, but… not enough to go back. I can’t see myself returning for more than a visit. Ever.”

Pink lips pulled apart, jaw left ajar; head canted in confusion: Solas’s startled air was more unstable than the actual air whipping Vinya’s hair around, because two seconds later he became the picture of prim, proper and placid.

The woman wondered. His surprise insinuated an assumption being proven wrong, and once-upon-a-time Vinya would have scowled at any theories Solas had hazarded towards her motivations, or actions, or desires. But now… Now that surprise being hastily reigned in meant he’d thought about it (and her) for long enough to make guesses.

Vinya liked him guessing about her these days. He kept giving her credit where it _really_ wasn’t due, and, as she was lately so weighted with guilt, it felt good.

“You would stay and continue your work as Inquisitor?” Solas asked.

That was what surprised him – and impressed him.

Vinya winced.

“Uh… no? No. Maybe I’d tag along with Sera, if she let me. Or Blackwall. Or I’d go find other Dalish clans. I would like that: to see how they get by. My clan got along fairly well with others most of the time, but I know there are other clans who don’t. I just… want things to be better for our people. I could get Briala to help, maybe.” Her tone shifted from sincere to sarcastic. “Or I could go to Tevinter. Dorian could show me the sights, and I could free all the elven slaves.” She snorted. “Think I could do it?”

Solas’s back straightened. Slavery was a topic he never took lightly. “Whether you could is irrelevant. Liberty as a cause has few defenders these brutal, blood-soaked days, but the weak would thank you for caring. The bound would try their chains. And though a subtle ease-of-suffering might be all you can offer, for now it could be enough.”

“For now?” Vinya asked slyly. “Expecting a full-blow revolution sometime soon? Or something worse? How you can be so optimistic and fatalistic at the same time, I’ll never know.”

Solas shrugged.

“What would you do?” the woman asked. She was pretty sure she knew the answer. “Go find another quiet spot to have a nap? Fall asleep in a sunbeam?”

“My future might involve the Fade, yes,” affirmed the apostate.

“I’d miss you,” Vinya said.

It wasn’t supposed to get awkward. The wind should have kept beating the battlement banners against themselves in a chorus of scraping canvas, but it did not. The gusting air sighed its last, birds cheerfully warbled their way to nests nuzzled in stone walls, and earthly nature conspired with the coursing sun above to make it all just a bit too much.

A rosy blush bloomed across Vinya’s cheek as she bowed her head. _Well, this is… frig dammit_. The notion of never seeing Solas again struck her in the stomach and left it empty. Or was that the grumbling of requiring a real, proper breakfast? Either way, Solas now looked at her as though it was the first time he’d ever done so, and Vinya suddenly wondered what it would be the last time they traded glances. Tragic? Terrible? Nonchalant and easy?

The apostate had moved much for the sake of survival, as well as his Fade studies. Skyhold was nothing to him but a stop among hundreds, with a bed both better and worse than he’d fared before, and friendships that he’d cherish but never nurture. Going out into the world to get lost seemed so **sad**. Leaving to where Vinya could never listen to his stories again was worse. He was easily the most passionate person she knew, and to loose such zeal would make her incomplete. The man was as important to her as anyone else. Sera (her humility), Blackwall (her protector), Bull (her analytical mind), and now Solas – she needed any of them as much as she needed air or water. Vinya loved her friends. **Loved** them.

“Did I make it weird?”

Not that, like, he needed to _know_ that. Or that he shared such sentimentality. Vinya felt her friends were family because clan-life had taught her that. But she didn’t expect it from anyone else.

“Not at all,” Solas said. “It was simply… surprising. We feuded so often in the past, I was not sure I should expect friendship.”

“Ha!” Vinya barked a short, dismissive laugh. “I guess you don’t know how Bull and I got along when we first met. It was **not** good. I was on him constantly about Qun stuff after Dorian explained some of it to me. Kind of like you, I guess. Except I wasn’t coming from a place of magic.”

“I will miss you as well, Inquisitor,” Solas admitted after letting her prattle. The smile wasn’t at his lips, though. It was only in his eyes.

_‘ **Will’**. Mythal, I don’t want him to go._

“I’m gonna to go get some actual food,” Vinya announced, pushing off from sitting on the rampart wall. The need in her stomach was growing to angry, growling proportions. “And never fear – I won’t forget to order your custards.”

Snatching up the book, she made for the door with the intention of hiding at the Herald’s Rest.

“Are you worried still? About the Well of Sorrows?”

Vinya turned on her heel. “What?”

Solas, utterly serene, nodded at the tome. “It was only last week you speculated your hand to be possessed. You spent time in Ormel’s study examining ancient Dales’ artifacts, despite your distaste for him. And now you gather literature with no hope of gaining pleasure by it. But I warn you: the book will give no answers. What Dalish parables there are in those pages has also forgotten the wisdom of The Well.”

Her book felt smaller and lighter as she held it harder against her chest.

“I’ve gotta do something,” Vinya sighed. “I hardly sleep anymore unless I drink enough booze to pass out. When I do fall asleep, I end up in the Fade and have to wake myself up. The Well is…” _Making me write shit when I’m unconscious? Whispering about going south when I **am** awake?_ _Driving me up the damned wall every other moment of my life?!_ “The Well was not a good idea. You were very right about that.”

“And is this concession an indication of trust? I once suggested aid in navigating your dreams. The offer still stands, Vinya.”

_Elgar’-fuckin’-nan._

It was genius. It was beautiful. It was pathetic that she hadn’t thought of it before, but there it was anyways, and what did it matter who’d made the suggestion?

She could tell Solas. **_In the Fade_**. Away from prying eyes, listening ears, and sneaking spies belonging to whoever the note had warned her about. Vinya could make Solas a confidant in all things Corypheus’ Orb, and they could figure this shit out.

No more being alone. No more lying. It was perfect.

“Alright,” Vinya nodded. “I’m in.”

She was light-limbed. She felt a mental weightlessness that translated to a nimble step. A moment later, though, she was worrying again. Distracted by these hundred-feelings, and with a mind so torn between relief and anxiety, the woman had no room left to mull over the one decision that probably mattered most.

“Stew,” Vinya off-handedly said six minutes later to a red-headed bar-maid. “Please. And a cup of chamomile.”

Stew was an iffy choice of grub to grab at the Herald’s Rest. Which often came up in conversation, incidentally. Blackwall and Bull both had long opinions about the mystery meal whose questionable contents reminded Varric of the menu at the Hanged Man, his old haunt-home in Kirkwall. The meat changed daily, or by the hour. The broth could either be clear, creamy, or some horrifying middle between the two. Cabot the barkeep was brusque but impish, and enjoyed making up new stories as to what went into the mixture. His latest and greatest?

_Yeah. He was passed out, bigger than a house, and I couldn’t get him to the door. The pot was closer, anyways. Old, grizzled, with more scars than skin left – that’s why the meat is so damned tough. Thoroughly marinated, though._

Settling into a corner seat with her food and book, Vinya glowered at the stew which today had the consistency of mostly-solid porridge. _Bon appe-tits_ , as Sera claimed the Orlesians would say.

Before she could tuck into her lunch or the book, however, the Iron Bull and Dorian Pavus were both getting comfortable at her table.

“This country usually throws potatoes in luke-warm water and calls it ‘lunch’, but the menu must be getting surprisingly complex,” Dorian chided. He leaned back in the booth beside her, propped his arm along the back, and played with his wine glass with his free hand. “There is no other reason to be reading a book in a bar. Even I’m not that insipid.”

“I haven’t opened it yet,” Vinya defended indignantly.

Bull’s eye roamed across the cover from where he sat. “Josephine got you reading up on etiquette again?”

“No…” Dorian reported slowly and contemplatively as he read the title. “It’s one of Solas’s, I believe. Looks dreadful. But that does explain a thing or two.”

“Solas has bad taste in books?” Vinya asked brightly.

“No,” Dorian chastised. “ _Vinya_ has **no** taste in books. And when she should have come to me for advice on fine literature, she instead went to the apostate hobo. Of course, you have been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

Vinya narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t going to start a conversation with me about, like, relationshipy-crap, are you?”

(He was, for the record, one of very few friends who hadn’t insinuated romantic leanings to her new rapport with the apostate.)

“Not at all,” Dorian blustered. “I will continue to talk about it behind your back. For the sake of your feelings.”

“Behind my back?!”

Iron Bull’s tone was gravelly and enthusiastic. “With the way you were reading Solas’s ass while we were sparring, I’m not surprised you borrowed one of his books, too.” He winked. “See? Isn’t it better out front instead of behind your back? I mean, it’s fine if _you_ like it from behind, Dorian.”

Both the human and the elf groaned in tandem.

After a careful sip of his white wine, Dorian started again. “Poor Blackwall. He’ll be broken-hearted you’re reading Solas’s _assets_ instead of his own—Wait. Do you even suppose Blackwall can read?”

“You’re terrible,” Vinya prodded as she poked a spoon into her stew. When the spoon wanted to stay stuck in the sludge, she gave up and pulled her chamomile closer. “Where is Gord—er, Thom... _Ugh_. Where is **he,** anyways?”

“Pouting? Wallowing? It’s Thurday, yes?” Dorian glanced at Bull. “Thursday. Right. Then I believe he’s wallowing.”

Vinya thudded back hard against the seat. “Bah. We need to get him out of this rut. He can’t be moping until we leave for the Arbor Wilds. He’s gonna cramp up!”

“What do you expect we’ll find there?” Dorian asked. His brow knitted a bit; tone softened. “Are the voices still bothering you?”

“They’re… there. But it’s fine,” Vinya shrugged. “And I don’t know what we’ll find. Something big. Something to end this, hopefully. Maybe Corypheus. Who knows? He’s got a thing for elvhen stuff. Maybe we’ll see him there and kick his ass. Can you imagine? If this all ended in two weeks?”

“You still worried about that?” Bull jutted his chin in her direction. He seemed unusually keen on ferreting out the stuff she didn’t want to say. “What happens when this is over?”

“I don’t worry,” Vinya insisted. “I never worry.”

“You worry when you’re drunk,” Bull smirked.

“She’s _honest_ when she’s drunk,” Dorian corrected while downing the last of his glass.

“I’m never honest and I never worry,” Vinya proclaimed with a shit-eating grin. “You guys go back where you came from, and I never hear from you again. What’s there to worry about?”

“You should be so lucky,” Dorian stated tenderly.

Vinya fell silent in a very obvious way, and tried to hide it under the pretense of sipping her tea. It tasted better than usual – owing, perhaps, to the fact that she didn’t really see ‘over’ as coming anytime soon.

Bull was right. Sometimes she did worry. Sometimes she worried when the beer was foamy, the room warm, and her friend about. Sometimes her mouth tasted like bitter and barley, and her head got light while she let herself lose those terrible heavy things: _I don’t want to go home, I don’t want to never see you again, let me go with you (Sera) to Denerim, or you (Bull) to wherever, just let me—_

But the tea was good today because after Corypheus there was something else to worry about. There were the clues. There was the evil-mastermind behind the Orb. And after conferring with Solas regarding the whole thing, maybe they wouldn’t go. Maybe they could all fight baddies together forever.

“There will come a day when we win the war,” Dorian said at her side, the arm stretched out behind her twitching a bit. He sounded quiet. Vinya wondered whom he was talking to: her, or himself.

“Liar,” she said.

“ _Optimist_ ,” he insisted.

After which Bull descended upon her abandoned stew. Vinya got up, went to the bar, asked for meat-pie, and while waiting traded about thirteen glances with thirteen people. When she got back to her seat, with a little warm plate in hand, Dorian had her book and was flitting through the pages.

_That… was… not…_ she cursed herself with a mind dazed for fear, **_really not_** _… really fucking not smart. Dammit, Vinya, you idiot!_

“Did you know someone has written in the margins?” Dorian asked lightly, still looking. The piece of paper that had been within was now on the table. Vinya thwacked down her plate, plunked down her butt, and swiped for the loose parchment.

It was only a requisition form from the librarian.

_Well, that’s nice_ , she thought.

Digging into her pie, she let Dorian continue to meander through the book until he got bored. He soon wordlessly left to refill his wine. Bull was leaning back in his chair and chugging the last of his drink when Vinya pulled the pages open and started looking at what was written, meanwhile savoring the taste of her lunch.

It was Chantry jibberish insisting that Elgar’nan hadn’t done **this** because of _that_. It was shemlen blabber bemoaning the birth of halla because no, no, shape-shifting is heretical nonsense, don’t you know. Vinya could read what was there, but it was so convoluted in educated rhetoric that the words seemed to go up their own ass. Until she noted what Dorian had mentioned: the words in the margins.

It was written messily. It was unorganized. It was a few words every few pages. And it was in ancient elvhen, it had the voices from the Well of Sorrows storming in her head, and it was her own penmanship.

In short, it was the next clue.

“Well, I’m out,” Vinya said, standing up immediately. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“Shit?” Dorian repeated cheekily, having returned. “Do leave that book in the privy when you’re done, then. I’m sure others might find a, uh, _use_ for it.”

“How about we meet back here tonight?” Bull asked. “For cards.”

Biting her lip, Vinya tapped the book against her leg fidgety-like. Whatever the new clue entailed, it would likely keep her busy. “We’ve got a couple of days before we leave. I’d rather not be hung-over while trying to sort out my gear. And whatever else last-minuet stuff Josephine will have me doing.”

“ _Cards_. I said _cards_ ,” Bull repeated. “You want Blackwall out of his slump? You bring him, I’ll bring the deck.”

Bull was always thinking. Watching, thinking, planning, and implementing. It was a great idea, and Vinya nodded vigorously. She needed to know what was written in the margins of the book, but she also needed Blackwall in tip-top condition.

When fighting at his side, it was easy to see he could turn off and on The Brood Mood like a kerosene lamp. He didn’t need distraction from himself to do his job, just as Vinya didn’t need to baby-sit him. There was no true need to worry about his ability or dedication. And yet…

Blackwall quickly lost his dark, far-away reflections when there was a game of Wicked Grace going. He made bets, drank more beer; laughed a lot. He seemed years younger as the lines at his eyes smoothed.

What Vinya needed was to see her friend smile. So it was with an enthusiastic nod that she agreed.

Later that night when she returned, Vinya had Blackwall on her arm, a new clue tucked into her breast-band, and a large, glowing grin on her face.

Iron Bull was standing outside the bar. At his side was Sera and Solas.


	11. Chapter 11

Four hours before twilight. By now, dusk’s rosy sunlight would be spilling through spotted windows and leaving hand-like shadows clawing for transparent purchase. Though it was temperate outside, inside they’d find warmth. Though there was conversation across the courtyard, through the door they’d find quiet.

Cabot, _The Herald’s Rest_ proprietor, could periodically be persuaded to lock the doors, leave some kegs, and let the Inquisition's inner circle have an evening of uninterrupted levity. As Vinya walked towards the bar with Blackwall, that was what she expected: just her and present, pleasant company carousing until a responsible hour. She had important things to do that night, after all – things regarding hurried, hush-hush action, yes, but for once Vinya was **excited** about the mystery notes’ cryptic instructions.

It was finally coming together – unlike anything else in her time as Inquisitor. The fight against Corypheus had never been clean or simple: it had been full of coincidence (finding Skyhold), figuring things out on the fly (Halamshiral), and faith (which was always iffy territory). Now, however, Solas had suggested helping her with the Fade, and the Fade was exactly what the clues wanted her considering.

_"Without realizing it, you now know, by name, the person who created the orb. But although the book has given you this much, there is something else you must understand—"_

Staring wide-eyed ahead, the woman dislodged forcefully from the grip around Blackwall’s gallantly offered arm. “What… But you…” Thoughts of the new note scattered as rounded eyes whittled to slits. “You said we were playing cards, Bull.”

The Herald’s Rest was admitting the usual respite-seeking horde. A short ways away, training swords, worn shields, and heavy tankards lay haphazard about the ground.

“Cards,” Vinya repeated with the intonation of someone shaking another by the shoulders. “ _Carrrrrrds_.”

The Tal-Vashoth shrugged. He was wearing leathers at the shoulder and an evasive look about the face. “Yeah, but we’re heading out soon. Thought we could do with some hot, sweaty exercise instead of sitting on our asses. Gotta limber-up. Am I right, Solas?”

Doing anticipatory neck-rolls in the shadow of a young oak, Solas conceded to the man’s statement with an approving nod. He greeted the Inquisitor with a smile that soon returned to temperance in his preparations. Vinya did the opposite: she moped . It appeared Wicked Grace wasn’t on the table tonight – figuratively or literally.

The woman was sitting in the grass three minuets later. Cross-legged and concentrating, Sera dealt a greasy, scuffed-up Orlesian deck of cards while the boys, all raring to fight, discussed who would face-off first.

“No smashin’ tonight, huh?” Sera divvied up the deck with conviction. “Drinkies or elsewise.”

“Nope,” Vinya affirmed dismally. Then, summoning some grit, she tried to sound less sad-assed and sulky. Sera deserved better, after all. “It’s just you, me, and War. The card game, not the actual... _yeah_. It’s like you said: no elsewise for me tonight. I mean, if they want to practice sober after that’d be great, but I think it’s going to be a lazy evening. Which is nice.”

It was any other night to every other person. Refugees moved around the yard, their conversation even-toned. Soldiers meandered half-kitted and happy. Dinners were being cleaned-up after while children bedded down in their blankets. One woman, engulfed in the smoke of old, flaming fir boughs, knitted stubbornly through watering eyes, and she looked utterly content at her task.

The air was calm. It tormented Vinya. Warm, balanced breezes and responsibility caged her in agitation as she eyed Blackwall and Bull taking arms and doing harm while Solas stood like rock, rigid and calculating. The woman wished desperately to be in on the action; to feel the adrenaline of battle course bloody, beautiful clarity through her body, but she did not want to drink lest it interfere with her later plans. That evening’s ‘Fade session’ was imperative to her peace of mind, as well as the fate of Thedas.

Vinya needed to make serious head-way in regards to the creator of Corypheus’s orb, yet not a single soul could know it. The Inquisitor was leaving to go south: that was the talk about Skyhold. Soon, Solas would know different. But not if Vinya became so inebriated that her consciousness could not find the Fade. So sparring and boozing were not her lot that night.

Not that she could explain it in this way to Sera.

“I mean, I’m going to have so much to do tomorrow,” Vinya deviated (just slightly) from the truth. “I won’t survive it if I’ve got a splitting headache. Josephine always has a pile of paperwork for me to look over before I leave Skyhold, plus I prefer to personally check my gear because—well, you know. Things don’t end up fitting right, things fall off, and then everyone can see my things while we’re fighting. Are you ready to go? It’s the day after tomorrow, you know.”

“Phft, **_no_**.” Apprehension bubbled up in Sera’s chest and was heard in her words. “ _Bleh_. Back to ruins full of elfy pish ain’t any got use for. No roads. No taverns. Trees with them friggin’…. _fingers_ size of houses.”

“Roots?”

“Whatever. Roots, and stink, and rash and pus. Back to the sweaty butt of the world. I ain’t Big Talker. Don’t need silks or a roof while I’m shut-eye. But nothin’ is worth footin’ and blisterin’ through four days of bear shite. And bird shite. Bat shite. _Shite_ shite.”

Flipping the first card in her deck-half, Vinya placed it between them.

“You are **such** a city-girl.”

Sera mirrored her movements. When her card proved of higher value, she took the lot. “Flower shite. Spider shite stuck with bitty bugs, and is, like, _all over_. Shite heavy air. Gettin’ faced on the floor cuz snotty rocks and tree-fingers.” The list of the Wilds’ sordid features suddenly changed her tune. Her face sang with a grin. “Beardy smellin’ worse than a puss-palace piss-pot.”

Vinya snorted and thought somewhat pityingly of Blackwall. “He **does** get pretty ripe when it’s humid. Poor guy.”

“All that hair,” Sera nodded. “Bet Cassandra is just as bad. _In places_.  S’pose that means Baldy smells like roses, though, yeah? Which is just grand. Rosy sweat to match his rosy—“

Vinya had the power to command silence with the rise of her brow. There were soldiers and attendants trained to anticipate The Inquisitor’s needs by physical gestures alone. Beyond the castle help, there was also the world’s hierarchy drawn to deciphering the opinion of a soft glance or a subdued sneer. Her body-language had them all transfixed: monarchs, matriarchs, men, and menial staff.

But this was Sera – not those other sods.

“Shite?” Vinya suggested. Her surprised expression should have given the girl no pause. And yet it had.

Sera shrugged while busying with the game. “Elfy pish ain’t any got use for,” she echoed. Collecting the two cards they’d played, she put down another.

Whereas Sera went quiet, Bull was talkative. Delighted taunts and hearty compliments directed at his competition were heard over the thumping of canvas swathed about padded swords. Following an exuberant loss to Blackwall, Bull walked towards the women with a light sheen of sweat on his limbs. He called his part of a conversation over his mountainous, well-worked shoulder, and in doing so called Vinya’s attention away.

"See, I’d have Sera on one shoulder slinging arrows—"

"Not gonna happen, weirdy," the rogue chimed upon hearing her name.

"—and you on the other throwing ice. Then there's me in the middle with my big, thick, swinging sword. It'd be great!"

"And precisely what would this accomplish?" Solas queried loudly.

The tone in which Bull answered was reverent. The glint to his eye was maniacal; loving.

" ** _Mayhem_**."

Vinya snorted.

“Mayhem is a state of mind – not simply flashy tricks on the field,” Solas pointed out. His hands were on his hips, but his tone was not out-of-sorts. The man loved a good strategy-talk. “Dorian's skill in necromancy could better suit your need for chaos if that is all you wish to achieve."

"Yeah, but I already asked him,” lamented Iron Bull. “He said he wouldn’t appreciate company while his legs were wrapped around my neck. Or— well, Dorian may not have put it _exactly_ like that, but you get the picture.”

With a great deal of dramatic groaning he sprawled out near the card-players, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. Before he could really relax, however, Solas had one last crack at the Tal-Vashoth before his cuts were dedicated solely to Blackwall.

“Yes, I imagine room to maneuver would prove precarious,” Solas posited. “Unless, of course, you tied him on.”

Sera snickered. Vinya smiled. Bull laughed a loud, uproarious laugh that translated to _, yeah, and let me tell you, things are going to get pretty damned precarious tonight_. It drew attention to Dorian’s lacking presence which would have promised blushing, simpering retorts, plus hand-holding when both he and his lover thought no one was watching.

The mage usually acted embarrassed as Bull became racy, but when he asked his _amatus_ to stop he stopped. They were a good couple: warm, respectful, and similarly lurid. A few glasses of wine or beer away from falling over, and they’d both start trying to out-do each other with evocative comments or dirty metaphors. It was endearing and romantic. Their personalities were more complimentary than one of them (the human) liked to admit.

While Bull’s laugh dwindled into a gruff, warm-hearted hum, the Inquisitor glanced to the right. Solas and Blackwall were exchanging hard, lively blows against the background of a fiery sunset. She ruminated on how sweet it was that Dorian and Bull had someone – both to hold, and, _ahem_ , exchange hard, lively blows with.

It was so damned sweet it made Vinya’s stomach ache.

“I’m surprised you’re out so fast,” goaded the Inquisitor.

“I got beat by _The Brood_ ,” Bull admitted easily with a wink. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah she does,” Sera snorted. “The Brood gets her beatin’ all the time!”

Vinya's mouth fell in horror. “ _Sera!_ ”

“Or used-ta,” Sera corrected.

Shaking her head, the older elf put down her next card. “So you threw the game is what you’re saying.”

Bull shifted. “If it was anyone else, I’d say the big guy needs a break after what he’s been through. But not Blackwall. He sees winning as Rainier’s thing. Rainier was trying to win favor; win the prestige and the coin. Rainier wanted to be on top. Blackwall just wants to be forgiven.” He paused. “But Solas had that covered, so I figured I’d toss a win his way, too. Blackwall needs to remember that sometimes it _is_ about winning. Because there’s no atoning for killing kids when you’re up to your ass in demons – there’s just the win.” Bull blinked and scowled at his own mention of demons. “Or **dying** , I guess. _Bah_.”

Two-of-shovels lost to six-of-clovers. Vinya scooped-up the cards while smiling to herself. Bull had more on his mind than seeing how long Sera and Solas could play nice for. He also wanted to adjust Blackwall’s sorry mood. But, then, that was why he’d suggested meeting-up in the first place.

Vinya would have come out for cards/sparring just to fill time. Or to have fun. Bull, however, was a multi-tasker. While enjoying a nice, gratifying work-out, he was also getting Blackwall focused and the other two amicable. The fact that Vinya knew to look for these coincidences meant that she was learning, but she was still no where near as smart as The Iron Bull. He was her mind when it came to battle. He knew how to play people, foe or friend. And he was always thinking ahead while considering the group’s dynamics.

“You two are both stupid,” Sera observed without malice. “Doesn’t need make-nice nug-plop to prop him up. Beardy just needs _friends_ to be **friends**. Not friends to be friggin’ _users_.”

The leader of The Chargers was smart, no doubt about it. But Sera knew shit, too.

Vinya cleared her throat. ”Speaking of friends…” Bull’s words came back to her and she glowed with a smile. “Solas forgave him, huh?”

Bull chugged from his tankard before answering. “Yep. Mentioned something about healers having bloody hands – old elvhen motto, I guess. Then he said guilt is a shitty distraction, they shook hands, and went to it. Now if we could only get Cass on board like that. I’d love to see her down here. When she hits you, you **feel** it. And I bet she gets red as a rose when she drinks the hard stuff. Ha-ha-ha! _Adorable_.”

Vinya’s eyes rolled. Sera made a long, weird, strangled, hesitating, huffy sigh.

“ _Speaking of Solas_ …”—the blonde won the next two hands—“got a tip ‘bout a Friends’ stash somewhere down the Dales. It’s all big-friggin’-deal, old elfy faddle that Fade-fucking Baldy’ll flop over. Some run-way soldier is smashing graves and robbin’ hovels. Squire filled us in. And I filled Elfy in on it. Cuz I sure-as-shite ain’t searchin’.”

“ _Squires_.” Iron Bull shivered. “At least under the Qun you clean the shit out of your armor.”

Vinya didn't even bother replying to that (ugh). “It’s good that you two are finally getting along,” she mentioned casually, although it thrilled her to no end. “I mean, it only took, what, 8 months? Soon you two will be able to have a conversation without smartass comments. Maybe there’ll be less actual mud slinging, too. The use of manners, perhaps?”

“ _Nuh_ - _uh_ ,” huffed the rogue. “No way. You take your p’s and q’s and stick ‘em right up your q and p. I’ll front nice with Elfy cuz _you_ like him. I still think he’s a tit. Why you dropped boff-talkin’ Beardy and are droppin’ breaches for Solas is, I dunno, _whatever_ , but I’ll play clean. For a bit. While he’s… you know: in your bits?”

_Ah, yes: this old conversation._

“It’s not like that.”

Sera bristled skeptically. Her tone took on that timbre of depth which overcame her when emotions ran violent.

“Better be! Don’t you know what they’re saying ‘bout you? What they’re **all** saying ‘bout you?”

 _They?_ Vinya’s brow knitted. “Who—? Who is saying what? What does that even mean?”

There was a moment made of a cresting swell that passed by powerfully. It was as though a bubble had burst, or clouds cracked to give way to instantaneous storming. Things got taut. They weren’t easy anymore. They were hardly even friendly – but that was because Vinya didn’t like what she was hearing.

It wasn’t just words. It was censure.

“Talk around Skyhold is that you are getting down and sweaty with the mage,” Bull explained. “It started with the library staff and escalated from there. It’s none of my business, so I haven’t asked. Insinuated? Hell yeah. But not asked. Not that I **have** to ask. Too much awkward blushing and eye-batting so far, but I know you’re thinking about it.”

She wanted to shake her head. All she managed was sweating.

“I can’t believe people are gossiping about this,” Vinya muttered. From the buoyancy of being with her friends to _this_ : she felt betrayed. “I can’t believe **you** , of all people, are… I mean, is it really that big of an issue? He’s nice to talk to. And smart. And helpful. So, what, that automatically means I want to jump him? I like those things about you guys and we’re definitely not screwing.”

Bull didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s not Solas, then,” he posed. “Something else is getting to you.”

Swallowing hard could not rid her of the knot in her throat. “’ _Getting to me_ ’?”

A wind from nowhere howled through the courtyard. Bull had forgotten his drink. And Sera, now sitting up-right, had left the cards alone. Their faces matched inch-for-inch. Eyes were careful; mouths slackened by suspicion. They were in on this together.

It caught Vinya at unawares. It kept catching her like waves pulling her to deeper current. She was trapped; _ambushed_. By her friends.

“You’ve been hard to reach, boss,” Bull said. “Disappearing into Skyhold. Keeping to yourself. Saying you’ll be somewhere and then you don't show up. Krem was worried when you didn’t come get that report. **_I_** was worried. Not to mention you’ve been distracted. _Distant_. Like you’re somewhere else even when you’re right in front of us.”

“Crotchy, too,” Sera frowned. “Sayin’ your in bits, but really I was just in the road. Never down for a bang on the bong or a hang in my bunk anymore. It’s that Well.” Panic turned the crystalline clarity of her watery eyes to a chaos. “Innit?”

 _Fenedhis_.

“No,” Vinya replied quietly. “Yes. No and yes.”

Her heart hammered like a thing dying that didn’t want to. She’d have given anything to tell them the truth. It was on the tip of her tongue: a promissory, tempting sweetness. But the taste of bile overcame it. She realized she was not brave; that she was terrified of everything happening to her and everything that might still. Bull, who was so concerned with turning savage, could think she was going insane. Sera, always deeply anxious about magic, would hear the admission that _, yep, sometimes I apparently get possesses and write stuff,_ and maybe put an arrow in her. Worse than that, Sera might never speak to her again and _also_ get giving with the arrows.

Clan-life had taught Vinya to keep her allies as close as kin. It had instilled within her the belief that friends were as good as family, and blood wasn’t a requirement for strengthening the bonds of love or loyalty. But when kin fell prey to demons, kin had to die. They had to be pursued through forests and over fields while the hunt for supper’s stag and fox-fur went forgotten because _family came first_. Even if that meant all you could offer them was a blade to the gut.

Vinya was now the one with ties to the Fade. Bull and Sera were beholden to duty. She wouldn’t be able to blame them if they acted truly with conviction in their hearts. She could, however, see them now through a film of fear.

“It’s the whispers, you know?” the woman said sadly. _Bury the lie in truth._ “The voices from the memories. I can hear them right now—“and she could”—saying get my ass back down south. They’re telling me what I need to do: call Mythal. Summon her. It’s distracting; it’s… all I hear sometimes.

“But my hand hurts a lot of the time, too, and everyone knows it. It isn’t news to you guys, or any of the people here. Solas is the Anchor expert. He helps with the pain. He helps **me**. He always has. Not just with this, but after we secured the templars too. All that crap over Therinfal Redoubt? When I was hording shit? I’d be… I don’t know. Whatever Envy did to my mind— it doesn’t matter. But Solas _helped_. So now I’m not so quick to assume things about him. He’s my friend and I want to be around him. That doesn’t mean people need to make assumptions or talk.”

“People are always going to talk,” Bull said. “Just depends what you want them talking about. Either the Inquisitor took part in some freaky, fucked-up magic ritual and it’s making her lose her edge –possibly her _mind_ – or she’s going squirrelly over sex. It’s up to you.”

The urge to laugh, sob, and pass-out came in quick succession as she went from sweating, to chilled, to shaking. Bull understood more than he was saying, as per usual. Sera cared too friggin' much. And the Inquisitor was exhausted beyond what a month-long sleep would remedy. It was tiring justifying every little action in her life.

“Fine. It’s true.” Vinya sighed the sigh of someone giving up. “I like Solas.”

“Duh,” answered Sera. Her rolling eyes stopped dead and squinted. “Wait. Yeah?”

The raven-haired elf looked over; noted the feuding fighters. She forced herself to look passed his magic; to just see the power. A flaming leash snapped at Blackwall’s body, but did not burn. It was controlled; careful: an expression of Solas’s mind and will. As the apostate took a drink from his tankard, Vinya realized she hadn’t really cared about the magic’s ‘unnaturalness’. The move had simply been well-executed. She was impressed. She was _proud_.

“Yeah,” she answered. Her heart felt empty.

“Aw, spit. Can’t take piss out the truth. You like him for really real, then.” Sera’s head tilted as she tried to wrap it around this new actuality. “Huh.”

Vinya had once (last week) considered pretending her feelings for Solas were romantic if it meant getting her friends off her back. Guilt had convinced her otherwise. Now, though, she could just sweat it out. She could sit, stew, feel all the horrible glory of being a manipulative liar, and clear things up with Solas later that night. That was what their Fade-date was supposed to be about: transparency and accuracy. No feelings would be hurt or confused. Certainly not in the long-run, anyways. So what was another lie?

 _Wait. Waaaaait a minuet._ _Fade-date. Fade **date**. Fade-date?! _

_Well, I guess if you don’t believe your own bullshit a little you’re not actually going to convince anyone._

“Was this your plan?” Vinya preened smoothly as she leaned back on the grass. “Get Solas sparring so his long, strong legs would stir me into a sexually-frenzied confession?”

Bull shrugged. “Mostly wanted to try that thing with Sera and him on the shoulders. It’ll work – it’s just going to take practice. Bah, I don’t know. Sera and I were waiting around, and I figured this would be better. Oh, hey. I think the Big Guys’ finally out.”

Inaugural reelings of regret tweaked her stomach as Blackwall, sweating and happy, came over. Solas, strutting and self-impressed, followed. His eyes were on her, and as keen as sunlight glaring off a lake.

“ _That_ was a match,” Blackwall approved around a rough chuckle. Choosing to stand for a bit, he rested his hands on his hips while his chest heaved lightly. “Solas really knows how to keep you on your toes. Almost as good as you, Vin.”

Vinya didn’t get a chance to hesitate over a retort (although nope, she didn’t in fact have one). Solas spoke immediately, his head inclined towards the gear and his accent heavy.

“It is your turn, Inquisitor. I admit: I’m curious to see you spar while sober. Will you stay until completion, or withdraw when I’ve taken the clear lead?”

Sera sniggered and shot her a look. “ _Completion_.”

“I am not sparring tonight,” Vinya stated. “Because if I play I’ll drink, and I want to be clear-headed for our Fade thing tonight.”

“’Fade thing’?” Bull echoed.

Solas folded his arms across his chest . “It is a presumptuous assumption to make, is it not? To believe, without question, that you will fare so strongly.”

Vinya grinned a little. For a moment she forgot the new-found fear of her best, most bosom-est buddies, as well as the anxiety that Bull’s curiosity had caused sharp and swift inside her. _He doesn’t need to know; please, Creators, let Solas say nothing. Bull doesn’t need to know…_

The paranoia passed just as fast as she’d learned to worry. In its place was the memory of a certain apostate slinging distracting slander while they traded soft, pillowed blows and circled each other.

 _“I’ll bolster my confidence with your breathlessness, Inquisitor,”_ Solas had promised four days ago.

“You can take your trash-talk elsewhere, magey,” Vinya rebutted brazenly. Her eyes fell to his mouth for an obvious moment. “I’d kick your butt all the way back to Arlathan, and you know it.”

Solas’s pink lips, she noted, pouted prettily. “Hm. _Disappointing_.”

“I’ll rematch, if you like,” Blackwall suggested. “Give me a chance to reclaim some of my dignity. If Vinya is set on declining, of course. And if Bull is done for the night.”

Vinya turned pointedly to the Tal-Vashoth. The Tal-Vashoth shrugged innocently at Vinya.

“Tweaked my shoulder.”

 _Bullshit_. _Bull **shit**._

Never had a simple curse been so accurate an adage. It’d been Bull’s intention to get her talking while suggesting the easy-going activity of cards (and then skirmishing) to bring her guard down. It was “friendly concern” which had him lying as much as she. It was The fucking Iron Bull being about a billion times smarter than she, and capitalizing on it. It was Bull pulling _Qun-crap_ on her.

The knowledge of this made the elf stiffen and side-eye and sulk once more. Not that Solas noticed.

“Perhaps, then, Vinya would be so gracious as to go inside and refill my glass with something less sour. As redress for our averted rematch.”

Without further discussion, the apostate of mysterious origin and false Grey Warden of the Free Marches returned to dueling to their heats’ content. A bird chirped. The wind whispered. Vinya blew through her nose and asked her query to no one in particular.

“He’s drunk, isn’t he?”

“He _was_ pre-gaming pretty hard while Blackwall and I were fighting,” Bull answered.

Although she had no true contract to do so, the woman got up, grabbed Solas’s tankard, and entered the Herald’s Rest. The room rustled when she entered.

They were grass washed in the wind; leaves blown by breeze. They were people, and not so easily defined by metaphor, but whenever Vinya walked in alone this was what happened: they saw her and they rustled. It only took a moment for things to normalize, yet, as she gaped and they gawked, she would always think how sadly impossible it would be to disappear among them again. Vinya would be known now forever, and either loved or hated.

It happened to a lot of her kind, though; the attentive scrutiny. The world knew that the Inquisition’s leader was an elf, but the majority was unsure of her face. As Vinya went to the bar and waited to ask for a sweet, white wine, two young elves came in and the room stirred again. Everyone stopped, and stared, and went back to their business soon enough.

The elves were visibly unnerved.

_Poor guys._

“ _Staring; stalking. See the ears with their eyes; feel the knife in their fingers. They said the Inquisition spoke for us; why are they staring? Run, no, breathe; stay. Order water with a smile. Master always liked my smile. Used his hand when I smiled. The whip when I forgot.”_

“Which one?”

Cole, at her right, eyed the younger of the two. He was tall, willowy and handsome, with light brown hair that looked like silk and matched the colour of his skin almost perfectly. From as far away as she was, Vinya was still struck by the magnificent inkiness of his eyes. The elf’s singular beauty made her immediately dread what he’d probably been used for.

“Are you going to help him?” Vinya asked.

“No,” Cole answered. “You are. You _did_. His master was a Venatori marksman. You cut him down, cracked the shackles, wrecked the old ways and made him new. His name is Mesnan. He is afraid. But happy. For the first time in his life, he’s _happy_.”

Vinya leaned harder against the bar in reaction to a thrum of emotion. It happened sometimes: her hand sought an objective and ended up brushing over so many things in the process. Helping this Mesnan was better than inadvertently stirring hostilities between Fereldan and Orlais (for example), but to cause ripples without knowing… It made Vinya feel more important than she wanted to be. It made her miss home, the aravels, summer hunts, and the gathering season. She became smaller beside the stature of her own name, and one day only her title would remain: Inquisitor. Of that, Vinya was terrified.

“He wants brandy.”

Cole’s ever-singular randomness met her far-down, dark thoughts head-on, and the ensuing crash caused emotional multi-colored fireworks. Vinya laughed almost certainly too much. She saw sparks across her eyelids; felt relief burst inside. Soon the light faded away.

“I think I doubt that,” she grinned eventually.

Cole’s brow knitted. He looked so much like a child with those great, sulking lips and large, looming hat.  He might as well have been a son dressing up in his father’s over-sized stuff.

“No,” he insisted. “ _Solas_. **He** wants you to bring brandy. And a sword _. Sweating, swinging; singing with steel. Lethallan, leader, liar; leaver. She owes me a match. I owe her much more_.” He abruptly sounded matter-of-fact instead of matter-of-mind-reading. “He wants you instead of Blackwall.”

Vinya snorted. Talking with him was always a treat. “Good to know.”

Then,

_“Solas can’t help you. Keep them secret.”_

A glass had been brought for her. Cabot was serving his next customer. The Inquisitor wistfully wandered out the door.

It’d grown late out under the sky. The flow of the people had ceased; the sun’s freedom had been shackled by night. Somewhere there was a fading day’s golden glow but everywhere there were silver stars, and Vinya was unsure of when time had caught up to them. Taking a sip of Cole-suggested brandy ( _phew_ ), she remembered why The Inquisitor’s officially endorsed beverages were beer and tea. She could handle the harder stuff like a seasoned booze-hound, but she sure didn’t like it. It was rough and icky.

Just about as icky as the looks awaiting her. There were a lot of expectant facades, ranging from flattened or furrowing eyebrows, to hands perched impatiently on the hip.

“What?” she asked.

“Been waitin’,” said Sera.

Handing the cup to Solas, Vinya watched him summarily slug the whole thing down before she could say anything to the rest of them about keeping their pants on.

“ _Creators_ , Solas, slow down!”

“He can’t,” enlightened Blackwall with an impressed smirk. “The bastard beat me three to twenty already. He’s earned it. Should've seen this over-the-shoulder move he— well. But I think I’ll be turning in for the night, Vin.”

Good-eves and farewells: candid and varied. Everyone made them, and then everyone shuffled off. But before dispersing, they took care to mention they’d see the others the day after tomorrow, all packed up and ready to roll.

Vinya half-smile at Solas. She was pleased by this natural culmination of the group’s gathering.

“Walk you back to your room?” she offered. “We can talk about how the whole Fade-thing is supposed to work. Cuz I _really_ don’t have a clue.”

The lazy amble to the apostate’s pleasant, incense-scented room was silent. Such peace turned to uproar when Vinya realized it wasn’t simply the comfortable stillness of two friends sojourning along. The dead-quiet rather betrayed all those assertions Bull and Sera had made because no one was looking out the corner of their eye or whispering their gossip or _whatever_. It was odd. Vinya and Solas made the stroll without meeting a single person who seemed to care for anything more than getting to bed. It soothed the Inquisitor’s mind. It had her amiable and content and wanting to talk.

“Solas, I—“

She opened her mouth as soon as they moved through the door to his room. There was the sudden need to jabber; to converse as freely as they had while on the ramparts earlier that day: without restriction, and, hopefully, the culmination of which would also end in revelation. Because Vinya _still_ remembered too clearly how Solas had defended the Dalish. His heart had been on his sleeve, no matter that the wolf jaw was there to protect it.

There were a dozen things (most prevalent: her nervousness) that needed saying in a mounting crescendo of uncontrollable feeling. _Help me, I’m scared. I’m hurt. I’m alone.  I’ve never done this willingly, but I trust and I need you. Also, I’m totally sorry about before, but we can have a real rematch later if you want, I promise._

So Vinya went with ‘Solas, I—‘. But sooner than ‘then’ or ‘after which’, she was tilting her head, peering particularly, and then (and after which) she was frowning, too.

“What?”

“I would prefer,” Solas said with a significant look, “if we postponed.”

The Inquisitor glared.

“ **What**?”

Since realizing she was closed-off from confiding in Bull or Sera for the time being, there’d been one bright light on the horizon of her troubles: Solas’s wisdom, demon know-how, and understanding. Although he couldn’t quite become the emotional crutch Vinya wished to cling to (she just wanted a hug, damn it), the one thing keeping her sane was still Solas. She needed someone to support or acknowledge the madness of these letters, or she would go insane herself.

Cole was not the backing she wanted. He’d only assert again that she follow the letters to, well, the letter, but that wasn’t actually useful. Riddles more cryptic than the notes didn’t clarify shit. Last time she’d talked to him about it, Cole had only reinforced old fears about the gods, Mythal specifically, and she’d puked, doubted her resolve, and had a tiny, inward meltdown.

Solas might sniff at religious myth, but at least instead of saying _who_ he would also say **how**. And he probably wouldn’t blame the gods for the orb. He didn’t even believe in the gods!

“Why?” Vinya turned her frown upside down-ish to something of a grimace. “Because you drank too much? The apostate got ah-pissed? That’s too bad, buddy. You said we’d do this tonight, and we’re going to. We have to. There’s no time before we leave for down south, and while we’re traveling it might not be feasible to… whatever… with the Fade. So it’s tonight. This is happening _tonight_.”

Solas’s brow rose soberly. It sowed a little remorse, and Vinya looked down at her hands.

“I… had something private I needed to talk to you about,” was her quiet confession. “And I thought we'd talk in the Fade. So… please? Solas?”

Solas sighed. His shoulders drooped.

“I’m aware of what you wish to speak. Sera and Bull were… more than forthcoming while you fetched my drink.”

The Inquisitor died then. It was swift; painless: an arrow to the heart that hit just right. She died as her spirit bled spurtingly, but she came back from the Beyond for the expressed purpose of going into wide-eyed horror and stuttering like an idiot. A total, friggin’ idiot.

“They… um, no. They—no. Because… That isn’t exactly what I wanted… _necessarily_ to say, I—“

“It is alright, Inquisitor,” Solas soothed as though speaking to a child. “Your interest is surprising, I admit. As well as flattering. It puts new light on your purpose these last few weeks. But although I consider you a friend, it cannot go further.”

“That’s…”

Vinya would’ve thought she’d want to exhale billowously in relief. It turned out that wasn’t true. Instead her lips sighed the word, “Why?” while her heart sang a silent ‘ _not_?’

“Many reasons,” Solas smiled warmly. “Too many to explain.”

“But you love explaining things,” Vinya answered.

Solas kissed her.

Taking one swift, forward stride, he put his lips to her cheek in an act as chaste as it was startling. Softly, tenderly; he hardly pressed upon her. It was a silent whisper across her skin; a shadow of intimacy lacking in lust. And as he kissed Vinya, Solas's hands clasped her cautiously by the arms, fingers holding careful as through she were butterflies.

It was not desperate. It was calculated, measured, and full of propriety. It was a good-bye kiss; a farewell.

Before Vinya’s chest could thunder with three beats of her heart, he moved back. Solas took all the encroaching heat of his body with him, but warmth lingered where he’d touched. It was wet warmth; memorable warmth. It left a tingle, and a hum. And a touch of vertigo.

Vinya stared.

“Dareth shiral,” Solas said. Then, when she did not move, to reiterate his point he smiled serenely and repeated: “Good-night, Vinya.”

The path to her room was clouded by stupor, yet before she realized it she was at her quarters’ stairs. Vinya was dizzied by the fact that here was another night passing and still she did not have someone to confide in. Moreover, she might wake and find _another_ clue. She might wake and see Corypheus sitting on the couch like he owned the place, and that would be far from the most pressing issue. Vinya could wake-up, groggy but content, and find she’d _strangled_ some poor chambermaid because who knew how far this hand-possessing stupidity went?

Also, Solas had kissed her.

And it _was_ that. It **was** the kiss. It was the kiss that had her blood coursing so cruelly through her ears while ignoring her weak legs and head. Then it was the rest — the fact that she was abandoned and blowing helpless in the wind.

Undressing herself and the bed, crawling under blue cotton sheets, Vinya was divided between confusion of one sort and confusion of another. It had been slightly condescending, that kiss. And yet somehow it felt like compensation in the face of the fact they were not in the Fade, and that she wasn’t unburdening her last weeks of misery. Vinya was alone now, more alone than this morning, and yet… that _kiss_ …

 _Ugh_. Things wouldn’t been so much easier if they’d just played _cards_ like Bull _promised_ they _would_.

**_Ugh._ **

Clamping her eyes shut and then wrenching them opened, Vinya watched Sera sit upon the table, her one-man rebellion against proper chair-use absolutely inspired. Her black, dirtied, velvet shoes were no where, her blonde hair was tossed back by a gust of breath, and then a raspberry vibrated her lips like a trumpet heralding some snotty remark about being sodding board.

_She is such a—Oh!_

There it was: the rosy sunlight she’d thought she’d see, and it spilled like watered-down wine through the windows of the Herald’s Rest. Vinya surveyed the Fade’s impression of the place without fear or dread. It appeared less dark and dank than what she was used to, but things were malleable here, made of memories or emotion, and whoever had seen this must have been in a good friggin’ mood.

The only people present, of course, were Bull and Sera.

“I’m sodding _bored_ ,” Sera sulked predictably, swinging her hanging legs vigorously. Her usual-selfness was strange here. Fearing what the Fade was, there came the expectation of demons and the suspicion of every solid thing standing, but Sera was just so… _Sera_. She was right and true.

“We could thumb-wrestle,” Bull suggested. It elicited a sharp laugh from both Sera and Vinya, though his ears only heard the one.

“Wot, so your fat, friggin’ fingers can flat mine like paper?”

Bull affected a sorry, hurt tone. “ _Hey_. Not fat! **Hefty**.”

Sera was Sera, just as Bull was Bull. Watching them without their knowing gave Vinya the opportunity to be with them but not fall prey to their dissection or examination. She liked it. She knew it was strange to like it so much, but she did.

“Need muh digits dandy so I can tell Elfy to sit and spin when he shows face,” Sera smiled while flashing the middle finger.

“No,” Bull warned. “You are going to play _nice_ , little Sera. People are wound tighter than a Chantry sister's pucker on Sunday, and both Blackwall and the boss are going to pop before we get three feet outside of Skyhold.”

“Yeah, well, steal their breeches, grease ‘em up, and bump ‘em. Bound to pop the lot.”

“You know it’s not that easy.”

Sera sadly clucked her tongue. Something genuinely melancholic passed over her features. “Well, it _used_ to be. Put 'em in a room and it'd be sunshine and cake. Before Beardy went’n jumped his his sword, and Vin… you know, figured she wanted to jump Solas’s sword. Or stick. Magic…somethin’… _staff_! Elfy’s staff. I mean, what the frig, right?”

“Something is up with her. You said it yourself — after she freaked about you being in her bedroom. It’s probably backwash from the temple. No way it’s just about a little rub and… _hm_. I guess she wouldn’t need anything tugged.”

“Head needs a tug,” Sera said wryly. “I mean.. _Elfy_?”

Bull smirked. “Can't blame her. Everyone wants to slap uglies once in a while. If Blackwall is too busy slapping his sword, then, hey, why not Solas? I mean, have you **seen** his ass?”

“Wot? Ugh! No! I hate you!!”

“It’s in his name, Sera. Sol- _ass_.”

Giggles abounded as Sera fell back euphoric upon the table. “Sol- _arse_. Ahahahaha! _Classic_!”

Vinya rolled her eyes, but smiled at seeing her friends so happy.

Then something shifted: Bull's expression, Sera's body, the whole feel of the room — all of it rolled like the surf changing its course.

"Hey, buddy; how's it going?"  
  
Amidst Sera's subsiding snickering, Cole was floating down from the upper-level as though made of misting insight — if mist landed a little heavy on each step of the staircase, and had shoes which audibly scuffed.

His footfall wasn't silent; it clunked like anyone's. But that was where his impression of a gangly, awkward, half-starved human-mage stopped. His chest and shoulders were stiff and controlled, hands clenched; eyes sharp. Soon he was whispering in Bull's ear. Then Sera's. The Fade had caught this marked moment which was taut for what was lost, and fraught with awful implications.

"You are right, The Iron Bull. They are stiff; spent. Mind and muscles made stale by the sleeping. Ties and faith made failing by her keeping away, but when the sword dances it all falls away; _flies_ away. In the fight they are free to be who they are. No masks. No games. Sparring would be better than faces on paper. You **are** right. The Inquisitor wants to _dance_."

"The spit you sayin'?" Sera asked hotly, jumping to her feet and marching closer. She suspected _something_. She was ready for anything.

"And you, Sera: worrying and wondering why she wandered away. _No ties worth mentioning?_ Now you're in knots not knowing; tied and tired. She still cares, and she's still there. They'll play their way, and you'll have yours, just say yes—"

And amidst a flourish of smoke, the spirit departed to echoes of " _Forget!"_ ringing through the dream.

Vinya vaulted up in her bed. She stared into night.

The woman couldn't recognize any reaction within herself. There was no tremoring terror or hiccupping horror. Cole had lied about her wanting to spar, but she wasn't astonished. He'd made them forget, but she wasn't afraid. He had planted seeds of fiction, and they'd sprouted, flowered, and spread like weeds, and because of it Vinya was not in the Fade with Solas. Cole had warned her not to tell him anything — _“Solas can’t help you. Keep them secret”_ — and he'd ensured her compliance.

The Inquisitor realized she was truly on her own. It made sleep return to her rather easily, like one falls into dreams while drowning because there's no support beneath one's feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to reader Qophia who kindly offered to do some beta work. I didn't take you up on the offer -- I just decided to suck less at editing :P But I still really super appreciate the offer!!


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